No ballad-lord

The storm begins with the swift-rising Sun

chasing the fast-descending globe of Moon.

Ahead of us, the fiery boars will run

driven, by hunt or hunter, noon to noon,

and the wild cattle sing their own, old, tune.

The hungry vultures have their own refrain:

You have to understand it fast and soon,

and learn all secrets of the coming pain.

Who comes with shadow before time is done 

is master all at once of hawk and loon,

and child of those who marvel at the Sun

but cannot realize that he comes soon.

Faster and faster, in no awkward tune,

but silently, yet in a manner plain

of sequences that free us far too soon,

to learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Those birds that we consume by pound or ton,

forgetting every sweetness of their croon,

are nothing to confront arrogant gun.

But, behind trees, as noble as our Sun,

sounding towards us as curlew or loon,

at end of day, arrive here much too soon, 

as in hard meter, or a solemn tune;

still tell our story in a language plain,

at sunrise, evening, or at highest noon,

yet learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Lady or Mistress, pray grant us this boon:

Ignore our foes, but still allow the tune.

Teach us to hold the line, but not to strain,

award us, rather, with a sweeter croon;

grant us the justice, but not the buffoon,

and learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Go, soak your head

 The bishop said to the old king

“Your odor is like rotten string,

You need, it’s so very plain,

Two hours in the soaking rain,

and a gigantic bee sting.”

If you only knew

 You’re sitting there, listening to the sound 

of distant pianos seeking to reach

beyond the surface of a higher ground,

while quiet waves roll steady on the beach.

What music you should hear this afternoon

is none that I could play, but then I can’t

manage to achieve one useful tune,

though still am able to produce a rant.

Your voice is silent, and I am not sure 

it needs to be accompanied by mine,

which is, alas, not delicate or pure;

less than a song, but certainly a whine.

I ache to hear, I wish to dance and play 

on this late evening at the end of May.

Done, done, done

 In the beginning, only dark and still,

for light, you know, will never reach on time

the hidden secrets of unvarnished crime;

it barely understands plain human will.

No brilliant moment to display our skill,

but simple fragments in the smelly slime 

hardly worth least effort, nor even rhyme;

nothing that matters when the day’s gone ill.

Perhaps we needed to announce the Sun,

but never caught the urgency of rain

striking upon the window of the dawn,

hearing the loud cry of the morning gun

with all its echoes of departing pain

as the slow breezes whisk away the corn.

Days left

 Where it began no one could ever tell,

the sky is clear, and every cloud is gone,

leaving behind the clarity of Sun

with shrinking echo of alarum bell;

we see, while trembling, the day goes not well

but not as sadly as when it is done.

The suffering, it seems, is half the fun,

for every road delivers straight to Hell.

As up in Heaven, so it is downstairs,

though noise is always greater at the base;

for those above silence is never late,

but the Lord Bones will neither take on airs,

nor accept quietly time to erase 

what we know ever will be our foul fate.

The ride is approximately at its end

 How do you get out of a subtle trap?

The normal rules have never once applied 

to anyone, except the dumbest sap

who has no choice but to stay on the ride.

Those who object are actually fools,

with sluggish minds, lacking the mental tools.

Then there’s the pain, the force you can’t escape 

unless upon the  last long downhill road,

the one you exit with your mouth agape. 

The one where everybody knows the code.

There’s no evading of the ultimate,

the day has faded , and it is now late.

No matter how much you feel that you’re still strong 

your body demonstrates with all the pain 

your body held in silence for so long

you had forgotten, until the last strain;

and then you that each breath is the last:

Your body is decaying much too fast.

The message has arrived, and it is clear:

All that is left you is a little air.

They are not the same sort of thing

I’ve learnt so much at the edge of sleep,

the mind half-aware, half listening close, 

but still connected, as you might suppose,

to something that consciousness must keep,

a matter that my mind desires to keep,

perhaps a memory of tree or rose,

or a sad fact that’s been struck on the nose,

important but not obviously deep.

The edge of death is quite another thing,

hallucination of dull yellow light 

illuminating something that’s not there.

The vision is not something I could bring 

within a fellow human’s mental sight,

only a place substantial as air.

Missing the dinner party

To read texts by Lenin and Marx

will always produce many sparks,

but we’ll be caught 

in some difficult thought

by what we began just for larks.

There is no ready answer within reach

 When there are many meanings to one word,

and many synonyms across the Earth 

we know that there will never be a dearth 

of concepts we believe that we have heard,

This is, however, not much more than merde,

only another error brought to birth

of no more value than a little mirth,

at the same moment funny and absurd.

We find ourselves in no safe place to learn

some part of verity that we may hold

to keep us walking on the safest way,

ensuring that there is a good to gain.

Yet we can’t understand what we’ve been told,

nor comprehend what the prophets say.

The sailor’s return

I begged from the king a ticket of leave.

to see for a while the one whom I love,

so long without her made both of us grieve. 

His Majesty laughed, and gave me the glove.

I went to the count, and asked for the same,

reminding my lord how I’d brought him gain.

He glared at me, saying I had no shame 

but simply desired to avoid more pain.

I stole a small boat, and began to row,

begging all forces to make my arms strong,

wafting me easily on the sea’s flow,

and bring us together swiftly as song.

Back to her arms, swearing never to part,

and holding her close to my aching heart.

Cantiga de amigo

O wildest of seas, beside which I wait,

lead my beloved in haste to my side.

Keep him away from danger and harsh fate,

and return him to me in honor and pride.

O wildest of seas, protect his small ship,

 and bear him to this haven swift and soon;

protect his feet, and do not let them slip,

but bring him home under a golden moon.

O wildest of seas, let us both rejoice 

to see the one soul to whom we belong.

Let him be joyful at hearing my voice,

bring him to land soon, both healthy and strong.

O wildest of seas, may you never fail 

to bring him back home past each storm and gale.

No swifter victory has been obtained

These generals are cowards to the core,

although so pretty in their parade kit

they lack the basic skill of waging war.

Not one of them can recall the least bit 

of what they learnt of tactics and command,

and action fills their uniforms with shit.

You will not see them in hard battle stand,

but scream at sight of soldiers, and then run,

while the opponent laughs and thinks it grand

to see them flee before they’ve fired a  gun.

When war’s this easy there’s no need to fight,

just point your weapons, and enjoy the fun.

You need no tactics, your risks are so slight 

when they see you they piss their pants in fear,

and, lacking orders, turn their heels in flight.

This enemy would never think to dare

advance to worry a superior force,

possessing knowledge that they quake in fear.

Thus this encounter follows no hard course,

and is so easy, far beyond belief, 

that they’d capitulate to a dead horse.

One side, we know, will never come to grief

but take its victory with a broad smile.

The artillery laughs out in relief, 

and infantry is happy for this while.

The field commander tells his men to charge.

The running enemy can’t make a mile

before they halt, and cease to be at large.

One more such battle and the war is won;

there’s happy laughter from private and sarge,

who stand amazed how easy it was done,

and seeing swiftly they’ll obtain the win:

A war without a skirmish, that’s straight fun.

No bullet will, in anger, touch a skin,

the chaplain chants a hymn of praise to Mars,

with on his face a wide and joyous grin,

since actual conflict was not in the stars.

At such a speed as never seen before;

not for a moment in all other wars 

had any victory been obtained so fast,

that this false battle, at once first and best,

would be both easiest, and be the last.

This was the only military test,

it was so simple they could not believe 

grown men could flee with such appalling zest,

at such a pace that it could not deceive,

even the most suspicious of all men,

in gratitude his mother need not grieve,

as it was clear they’d never strike again

at such a target that so quickly fell

not one combatant felt a touch of pain.

Instead there was a story they would tell 

of such a battle over in swift time

as to suggest the enemy could smell

defeat arriving in a single chime,

and so departed in unruly haste.

So here I’m ending with this simple rhyme.

That cloudy morning when my heart felt to cry

When I see horses running on the plain

I’m always pleased with their fantastic grace,

the smoothly moving, rapid speed of pace

as I stand idly on the hillside lane,

and work out every loss and every gain

of all the motion I can see or trace,

in every feature of each equine’s face

as they begin to feel the speeding rain.

If you believe life is a golden thread 

with iron scissors bringing it to end

then you should become frozen by your fears

of the dark beings ordained to require 

to punish you each moment that you bend

your painful back, and seek to hide your tears.

I will be yelled at for a foolish risk

Each time I clamber up the drystone wall

it’s an adventure felt deeply inside,

my feet aren’t certain they won’t let me fall,

and the rough limestone threatens my soft hide.

Here as the sun sets and the day is done 

I find great horror where a spider’s spun 

the thinnest silver thread with drops of dew

enough to make it visible in air.

I smile at noticing the pretty new 

when I should be moving back in fear.

I miss the indication I should run.

I find great horror where a spider’s spun 

a web of thinnest, brightest polished steel,

with oddest creatures taken in its hold.

I am too scared to retreat or to flee 

although I feel my arteries turn cold.

Irrationally, I think I  need a gun:

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

Then when I catch sight of the arthropod 

I can’t forebear from emitting a scream

of invocation to an absent god

as I discover this is not a dream.

Reality I can’t afford to shun:

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

From deep inside I raise sufficient fire 

to move straight backwards from this shining trap.

This action is far less than I require, 

and I am now full as latrine with crap.

I watch the spider a strange monster stun,

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

When I seek for an answer there is none,

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

When you gaze from the hilltop to the sea

it seems as smooth as a ceramic bowl,

what you observe is not what you should see.

All our philosophers seem to agree

unclarity of light takes a hard toll

when you gaze from the hilltop to the sea.

The little tower is just a half degree 

from sliding into a false magic hole,

what you observe is not what you see

but eager eyes will not set the truth free 

even though vision can never be quite sole

when you gaze from the hilltop to the sea.

The ordinary folk cannot foresee 

they have no real idea of the goal;

what you observe is not what you should see 

because you failed to set the passive free,

and made your self-destructive thoughts your soul 

when you gaze from the hilltop to the sea

what you observe is not what you should see.

Have you a good whip?

 Suppose you find some strange thing on the map,

a village that had not been there before,

or a mid-river mine of iron ore,

would you expect it to be a mere trap?

Or is it simply a strange form of gap

between reality and something more,

unknown to our traditional lore,

and hidden from the ordinary chap?

There is no difficulty getting lost 

when you are following a petty fool

whose self-importance makes him a bad guide;

but when you’ve paid more than the normal cost 

you do not hold back from flaying his hide.

The morning could not speak to me

Watching the poem fail is no huge shock,

writing of sun and moon is a mistake,

so is a sonnet on the salty lake.

Perhaps it is now time to take true stock,

before the tired readers swear, laugh, and mock.

They cry out loud that I’m just one more fake, 

a failing poet whose words fall and break 

with all the rhythmic force of a dull rock.

I dare not laugh, but also cannot sigh,

I lost this match, I could not raise the steam 

to take my locomotive from the shed.

My mind has no clear image, and my eye

is disconnected from all thought or dream,

 the sheen upon my words has fallen dead.

So there’s this liar

This villain, long past his youth,

still has an implacable tooth

that helps him destroy 

all delight, trust, and joy.

But, most of all, crunches the truth.

Happy interruption

Under this branch the tenderest of flowers

smiles in the mottled light of this small wood,

the vision held me frozen where I stood 

for slowish minutes, or for rapid hours.

The tiny beauty had tremendous powers

granting me vision of a perfect good

more wonderful than any mighty towers.

It was the child of many gentle showers,

raising the sentiments all beauty should.

Beneath the joyful, gracious, happy light,

there was no recollection of the time

in which I was enchanted in that place,

entrapped by the sweet, unexpected sight

of loveliness caught just at its true prime,

granting that youthful me a perfect grace

The random force that makes us what we are

Darwin discovered all of life is change,

nature determines who will win or lose.

What was the normal turns into the strange,

since life alone has any power to choose

what will remain, what beings stay alive,

are those alone with offspring that survive.

Spencer mistook all life to be at war,

for only warriors can overcome 

all challenges from those who stood before

but could not hear the beat of a new drum.

The ones who are determined, who have drive,

are those alone with offspring that survive.

Kropotkin told us that only those who share,

who aid each other against fear and chance,

with common love, and with enormous care,

working together manage to advance,

we in communities that grow and thrive 

are those alone with offspring that survive.

Mendel found out the way nature must take

to choose the ones that find the way to reach

the pathway that provides the chance to make

the moves that will give them the power to breach

the barriers, and take the needed dive,

are those alone with offspring that survive.

Watson and Crick gave us the machine 

with which Dame Nature throws the magic dice

that activates the necessary gene,

able to win the race at lowest price.

So we, who could the best of change contrive,

are those alone with offspring that survive.

Thus all who learn to dance, and swing, and jive,

are those alone with offspring that survive.

Sprint or marathon, it doesn’t matter

You may not ever to the start return 

when travel ends, and you must take your rest: 

at your arrival all the past must burn.

There is no chance for anyone to learn 

enough to smile, and ace the final test;

you may not ever to the start return.

It is too late for any to discern

why you began with energy and zest.

At your revival all the past must burn.

Instead you teach that no one ought to yearn

for times you thought had been the very best:

You may not ever to the start return,

for doors are barred, and you may never turn 

before you reach the safety of the nest,

at your arrival all the past must burn 

as you teach others just how they may spurn

those who have lost the easiest contest.

You may not ever to the start return,

at your arrival all the past must burn.

i

Absolutely

 The number of lawyers’ is insane,

but the purpose is perfectly plain:

To keep them at law,

instead of at war,

is too good for me to complain.

Disobedience is thoughtcrime

Claiming that truth’s objective’s no mistake,

but when they tell you that inane reports,

and obvious lies and nonsense, are not fake,

you have to understand just who resorts 

to underhanded efforts that distract 

from dedicated setting-down of fact.

All of the media exists to sell

cheap physical, and mental, tat 

exuding an awful psychic smell,

very much like that of a large rat.

The purpose is to massively detract 

from dedicated setting-down of fact.

They want us to confuse the false and true,

uncertain as to criminal or real,

while formulating a dishonest view 

that forces us to bow, and then to kneel.

Lie upon lie they pile on to abstract 

from dedicated setting-down of fact

only the parts that they deem of great use

to demonstrating that they really care

about promoting theft and raw abuse,

and ignoring the honest and the fair.

The old objective is just to subtract 

from dedicated setting-down of fact.

When they decide to treat humans as toys

it becomes necessary to deceive. 

Pretending to defend the normal joys,

whilst making easy their efforts to thieve.

You are prevented by imposed contract

from dedicated setting-down of fact.

Our rulers forbid you, by secure compact,

from dedicated setting-down of fact.

What’s left?

There was an old man by the bay

who whistled, and whittled, all day.

Said he, “I can’t dance,

and no longer can prance,

so I don’t have a damned thing to say.”

Then you awaken

All the fine folk who ate out of your hand,

eager to join your ramshackle parade,

Addressing you in voices sweet though bland,

will somehow vanish when you call for aid.

It’s wonderful how rapidly they fade,

unthankful for the kindness you bestowed,

their words and actions only a charade,

dry watercourse where once sweet river flowed.

They’re silent now, and will not hear command,

all of a sudden they can’t make the grade,

they suddenly declare you’re not so grand

and so, with you, they do not have to stand,

will give you laughter, never helping hand.

Thus will they leave, and not repay the owed, 

instead they’ll join another, louder, band,

dry watercourse where once sweet river flowed.

You are still happier than when they stayed, 

and got all the reward they could demand.

Instead they lied about just what they brayed

when they called you a master of the land.

Their honor had been founded upon sand,

whilst their sole weapon was a rusty goad 

lacking the worthiness a true brand,

dry watercourse where once sweet river flowed.

Prince, these fine friends with whom you worked, and planned,

each one of them has turned into a toad;

your hopes and happiness may not withstand

dry watercourse where once sweet river flowed.

What the sunset shows

There’s no mistake we find we have not made,

yet we have not been wounded by a stroke

although we’d taken up an honest trade.

There is no shelter, and we have no shade

but think we are protected from the smoke ,

there’s no mistake we find we have not made.

The parasites remain after we’ve sprayed,

and do not care for any word we spoke,

although we’d taken up an honest trade.

Within the garden, even though we prayed 

there was neither protection nor a cloak:

There’s no mistake we find we have not made,

nor any offer of succor or aid,

and no one came our failure to revoke,

although we’d taken up an honest trade.

The countenance that we always displayed 

became, we found, a truly boring joke:

There’s no mistake we find we have not made

although we’d taken up an honest trade.

We sing the chorus, and we understand

That body hanging from the poplar tree

has ripened, and become a stinking fruit 

for each of us to sorrow when we see

how easily the gentle turns to brute,

smiling at how the fragile human clay

for liars’ honor has robbed their good day.

The wind unkindly moves it to and fro,

while vultures gorge upon the rotting meat, 

and happy perjurers stand smiling so

the ones beyond the flambeaux know defeat.

It does not matter what the preachers say,

for liars’ honor has robbed their good day

and almost silently the worn out weep

their sorrow whispered into the cold dark 

while there’s no vigil their allowed to keep

to ease the stroke of a horror so stark 

that they know just uselessly they pray,

for liars’ honor has robbed their good day.

The mayor, and the worthies of the town,

long ago chose to command unjust death,

without a moment in which they might frown

at thought of smothering a human breath.

This, for the townsfolk, is all they could say,

for liars’ honor has robbed their good day.

We are told, now, that there is rule of law,

and there’s no longer need to be afraid 

of men whose giving hand is grasping claw,

and for whom murder’s just another trade.

But they feel only prideful when they slay,

for liars’ honor has robbed their good day.

There’s true indecency that’s scribed this play,

for liars’ honor has robbed their good day.

To this one second I always return

In a slow moment of that glowing age,

with scent of allamanda on the air,

it was impossible to feel despair 

nor understand I was new on the stage.

The hidden words that lurked behind the page 

had not yet shown how little time could care

about my tiny pleasures, and despair,

nor yield in silence to excess of rage.

The answers to the puzzle we have found 

are always simple, but not always true,

and will be never more than half the story.

But there’s always more room beneath the ground 

for failed intention, for failure to view 

the world aright, and for absence of glory.

This is the proper turning of the wheel

 When we had hope, the garden was still green

as summer ended its enticing verse

before the falling leaves announced their curse,

announced the coming of the often seen

mechanics of the undesired machine 

that turns all time into a matter worse

than the appearance of the ever terse 

dead exclamation of what was obscene.

Now winter comes to tell us, dark and cold,

that we are mortal, but we cannot pray,

but while alive, in shadows we still sing 

knowing full well that every cloudy day 

will vanish with, at last, the final spring.

State of the Union

No matter how hard we decry

his actions, he just passes by

without any tact, 

or knowledge of fact,

since all Donnie says is a lie.

All that is learnt was always plain

You’re not alone in seeing what you learn 

fade into nothing, into a vague fume

absent of meaning. So must spirit turn

from action to the knowledge of its doom.

As for the past, I’m always in its debt,

so I shall think of it without regret.

The journey up is just the journey down,

said Herakleitos, and he got it right.

We should pass onward without stare or frown,

accepting that high noon must lead to night.

Each destination has for us been set,

so I shall think of it without regret.

The youth who gazed up at the summer sky

is bald and grey, and almost out of time

to repent of each foolish act, or lie,

while grateful that his feet could bear the climb

to see reach the future with unclouded eye.

At times I lost, at others won the bet:

So I will think of it without regret.

There has been luck, and happy accident,

with stupid error, and with gross mistake,

enough to know that nothing I have meant

was wholly for my undeserving sake.

The path was dry, but it was also wet,

so I shall think of it without regret.

Hard winds have blown me on so many ways,

have taken me to harsh pain and fine joy,

and yet have given me so many days 

of honest happiness to just enjoy.

What I obtained is what I had to get,

so I shall think of it without regret.

My few abilities granted a chance

to see the world, and take into review 

how at each halt, or half-advance,

I found, and reverenced all that was new.

I saw the pale, and then I saw the jet,

so I shall think of it without regret.

I reached up to the limits of my power,

but what I held I knew could never last;

for some time soon comes the defining hour 

at which I may not quail but must stand fast.

I have learnt much from all whom I have met

so I shall think of it without regret.

I'm just another fish caught in the net,

so I shall think of it without regret.

Some form of triage

When we arrive, we always seem to find

a long line of petitioners who await

the chance to demonstrate a pure mind.

The keeper of the portal is not blind,

but chooses, carefully, who'll pass the gate:

When we arrive, we always seem to find

that there's an altercation of some kind,

that gives us all, with good words on each slate,

the chance to demonstrate a pure mind

not only to ensure us this tight bind

won't overwhelm each silly word we prate.

When we arrive, we always seem to find

that there's one traveler who seems to find 

no difficulty with grace to donate

the chance to demonstrate a pure mind.

This exercise has never been refined,

and, if you think so, you'll meet with rough fate.

When we arrive, we always seem to find

the chance to demonstrate a pure mind.

Exhaustion is almost an art

 If I could choose which way the road would  bend

I'd make a map of every ideal way,

and have no reason thenceforth to delay

my onward journey. I did not intend

such a long pause, but now I must attend

to all the beauty of this late spring day

permitting every thought to have its say,

allowing each to find its proper end.

When we begin, the choices are not clear,

we can't tell the crude path from the high road,

except that at the end we hope to find

a place to rest, and a fine new abode

for aching body and overwsrought mind.

White sour

 Steve Miller’s a man with no wit,

of decency he has not a bit.

But if you’re pale white

he’ll grin in delight,

which proves that he’s a huge pile of shit.

This was the road upon which we fell

 We are no longer in a happy age,

for all around are visible the pyres

that speak aloud the fury, and the rage

of millions whose frustrated desires

are, to the rest of us, a warning knell:

All our ambitions led this world to hell.

You read, or watch, or listen to the news,

see failure and disaster as the mark

of our disgraceful lack of honest views,

returning all of us to the blind dark 

lacking a cure, or even a true spell:

All our ambitions led this world to hell.

There are no gods or demons to command 

our choices or our failures to decide 

that halted us from making any stand.

We came together in mass suicide;

and so, with neither whisper nor loud yell,

all our ambitions led this world to hell.

There isn’t much that promises new day

as wolf and leopard consume every gram

of human fools just learning we are prey,

and weeping as the predators now damn

all who are left into a stinking cell.

All our ambitions led this world to hell.

The truth is that the lot of us had known

that we had hastened this bone-crushing force

by turning conscience into cold stone

believing it was simply the right course 

to joyful ease. But we’re obliged to yell

all our ambitions led this world to hell.

We had been granted healthy rain and light,

yet gave them up for each new shiny lie

declaring that there’d nevermore be night,

that we’d be happy and no longer die:

But there was one truth not dispel,

all our ambitions led this world to hell.

All we have left is rot and nasty smell:

All our ambitions led this world to hell.

Come fly with me

The Emir, and all of his tribe, 

said it really wasn’t a bribe

to give Donnie a plane,

but they could not refrain 

from making an Arabic gibe.

True minds may marry, but also they may not

So there’s this boy I want, but heart still yearns

for dark-haired girl that both of us desire.

Every illumination must leave burns 

created by the fundamental fire

that blazes in the heart and on the skin 

of each who loves, and who now feels the pain 

of knowing that each option is a sin

unexpiably laying down a stain.

It isn’t that we have no ringing voice

to prove each honest word we have to say

allows each other perfectly free choice

to kiss and leave, or else to kiss and stay.

Our hope is that the giving of this trust 

is not another thing that falls as dust.

The day came once, and it may soon return

The poets of the thirties all seemed scared 

of darkness coming, but the certain fact

there was no single thing each of them lacked

did not disguise the evil that they feared 

would come at sunset, as cool neutrals stared

patiently waiting to see them attacked.

When the bombs fell, the ones who could not hide

looked upward even though they’d lost all nerve,

thinking their only choice was wait to die

under the rubble that would soon appear.

Still poets’ honor is to march and serve

while urgent death comes from the darkening sky,

and for that moment they hold back all fear.

It was in autumn

Up in the north the sky’s a brassy red,

as signal of this monstrous storm’s approach,

whilst we experience a mounting dread

although we still have water and soft bread

enough to keep our planning from reproach.

Up in the north the sky’s a brassy red,

while on this hillock all the truth’s been said,

we are just noting that the clouds encroach 

whilst we experience a mounting dread.

We chose to stay, although our neighbors fled,

the basic fact is one we need not broach:

Up in the north the sky’s a brassy red

informing us that what we fear’s ahead,

as ineluctable as swift cockroach,

whilst we experience a mounting dread

feeling the weight of air as hard as lead

on our stiff shoulders, sensing storm approach.

Up in the north the sky’s a brassy red,

whilst we experience a mounting dread.

And then we’re hard awake

You know the fact that within every crowd

there’s one voice shouting that we are all wrong,

and never should have chosen to be proud.

There’s always one more verse to every song

in every language, we have to respect 

even the ones that have the chorus wrong,

before we dare to cavil, or reject 

the wiser option of a single pause,

at the good timing of the worst effect 

of this false application of the laws

regarding human limits, and form

in which we take or ignore our own cause.

There’s never need to stray from any norm 

our fathers set, to keep us far from war,

of honorable action in the storm 

each one of us sees in the light afar,

and cannot hope to duck or to evade

the monster darkness eating the last star.

Probably should have just let be

I’ve taken every shortcut on this road,

my feet remember each old bump and hole,

my heart and memory have paid their toll

so all I need is to resume the load

I bore, on the old shady track I strode

in the past days when no weight on my soul

could ever matter. I had one clear goal,

and the one gift that nobody bestowed 

firm in my heart. I could ignore the law

all shall submit to on the unknown day 

when we must choose to flourish or to go

much further on. So see how every flaw

within each being leads it from the way.

Eventually we must stop pretending

The law’s no longer our faithful safeguard

against the monsters of a darker day,

nor will it aid us, even though they say 

they shall uphold it as our spear and ward.

It’s not as if we see the world as marred,

instead we sing, and dance, and paint, and play 

the whiny flute we’re given to allay

our fears, and to teach us submission isn’t hard.

We have no message for those up the road,

who’ve not yet learnt to shuffle their feet by

the crucifixion of our hopes and joys.

We have no way to shrug off the hard load

of all the elements of the great lie

that we are humans, and not tyrants’ toys.

If we can name it so

The justice that we get is never fair,

nor is the burden that we’ve been bestowed,

there is no reason anyone would care

which way we have to go, by ramp or stair,

to reach the point of setting down our load;

the justice that we get is never fair.

No one who suffers ever has a prayer 

of momentary rest, there’s no safe code,

there is no reason anyone would care.

We can’t expect, and so we may not dare,

to reach the place where nothing could explode:

The justice that we get is never fair,

it cannot be: So long as we breathe air,

or have this filthy planet as abode,

there is no reason anyone would care.

We know there is no option, anywhere

we look, we can’t reach what we’re owed.

The justice that we get is never fair,

there is no reason anyone would care.

The Vatican called, it ain’t me

A Chicago lad, once called Bob,

chose preaching and prayer as his job.

He was not a dope 

so they made him the Pope

because he was no normal slob.

Someone may know the answer for I don’t

 Today, at least, we learnt of no new war

nor any other sources of mass pain 

beyond the limit we can hold the strain

before collapse in weeping on the floor,  

in pity of the folk whose final store

of hope and promise has left on the train

to destinations, it is only plain,

at which all hopeful purpose is no more.

At every moment we have missed the mark 

for which we aimed on a far brighter day

when we expected neither wounds nor scars,

and did not think that day would turn to dark

without regard to any word we say,

and unilluminated by the stars.

The single answer to each query known

 This is a place where none will ever stay,

since we go down the road on which we rose

the map’s not needed to show us the way.

The path we travel’s easy to expose,

and we don’t reach the objects to bulldoze 

might bring to mind the thought we may transcend 

our ordinary selves. But then things froze,

we all arrive at the same equal end.

We are the actors in an absurd play

scripted by fools whose purpose, we propose,

is to proclaim that they’re another clay

than us onstage who seek to grasp the rose

that rises from our hearts, but none yet knows 

if we’ll meet darkness, yet we all pretend 

to think the rules are broken by our pose.

We all arrive at the same equal end 

by every road at the same point of  day.

If we could strike our rivals on the nose

it would not matter, we can never stay

in a safe garden. No one may oppose 

our onward march, nor that of all our foes,

to the one factor we cannot transcend

 either in poems , or in simple prose:

We all arrive at the same equal end.

Prince of injustice, whom we may suppose

eternal ruler, that you won’t unbend

is the one law that every being knows,

we all arrive at the same equal end.