between the storms

so many echoes in the rain

leave nothing of our vision clear

but when we breathe the morning air

the feeling's fresh the scent is plain

to all who notice yet we hear

so many echoes in the rain

that every ordinary brain

is forced into a deep despair

at oaths that we are forced to swear

so many echoes in the rain

the place of decision

we did not know all that the words have said

in the dead past and what was on the wall

vivid in sunlight is now past recall

but not all meanings dwell amongst the dead

waiting for better times and less cold dread

to illustrate the human rise and fall

of hearts that circulate and do not stall

but pain and narrowness stay in the head

that was a different and a better mind

possessed by those who sought to build our hope

in concrete forms and who not thinking stealth

in any way a virtue felt the kind

were more equipped for climbing the long slope

towards a place where all would share the wealth

thus said the prophet

we make our choices with honest conviction

and are persuaded that an angry curse

is just a matter for some plangent verse

or else results from sloppy bad male diction

all our desire is life with little friction

and we can't understand how the converse

happens how all our actions make things worse

just why the happy ending's only fiction

to tell this story would take me too long

so it must be cut short and that's a shame

since all the world is hanging on the tale

still all in all what hurts makes us more strong

and better able soon to win the game

while early victors in the end must fail

blooming jonquils

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

in the mild air when winter seems a lie

it is the time for all good things to grow

outside the breezes do not cease to flow

and clouds are scudding grey across the sky

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

so clearly yellow do those flowers show

they banish dullness and we can descry

it is the time for all good things to grow

life is so eager to get up and go

so energetic it could almost fly

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

returning from their sleep as if they know

we long for colour to delight each eye

it is the time for all good things to grow

in proper order this is nature's show

we only guide it then we smile and sigh

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

it is the time for all good things to grow

from evening to morning

frogs croaking through the night even in cold

february so rustically loud

you feel immersed within a chanting crowd

and yet the sound itself does not grow old

the singers do not seem to be consoled

but croak majestically clear and proud

this is their world they won't be disallowed

by sleepy humans none of whom are bold

to say all this is merely to record

last night's concerto in the nearby pond

as one more sign of nature undismayed

by all we do for my part i just snored

dreamt of strange worlds and places far beyond

my normal life then woke to mundane trade

from the conservative dark

there are no answers coming in the night

nor clarity in morning that is why

we seek for explanations on the fly

in earnest wish for ending of our plight

but nothing comes there is no vivid sight

all's grey and dullness settles on each eye

there's no firm sanity we can espy

the universe seems ordered by mere spite

when we were children we were told that cause

and effect followed by a straight decree

of nature's and the world was really plain

to adult eyes but now we have no laws

to follow and we find we are not free

since those who want to lead us are insane

to the last decimal

so many orders of which none matter

in this harsh place where all words come to fail

in giddy smoke and stinking horses' stale

it seems that all our urges need to shatter

because we have not found the proper scale

so many orders of which none matter

but many fools who do not cease to flatter

yet will not stoop to help us when we ail

nor build a roof to shelter from the hail

so many orders of which none matter

symphony of a thousand

 thunder declaring with a mighty noise

what we once knew but later chose to hide

believing we had so few other ploys

and only a small chance to save our pride

this was the the noble sound we came to hear

sublimest product of the engineer

of music there was the full weight of night

being lifted up around us the height

of passion reached in moments and the pace

of dragons felt as if it were their right

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

the calm the strain the skill that he deploys

marks the director as the truest guide

brimful of zest and  yet with equipoise

he knows he's got us all here for the ride

to turn us all at once to wolf and deer

and have a world of magic just appear

before our eyes without the power of sight

by mass effect of sound and not of light

no easy thing our plain lives to displace

a thousand voices is a tool of might

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

my eye is on the many girls and boys

in rank behind as all these worlds collide

what do they know how do they have such poise

in the great task in which they are allied

so much depends on voice bright and austere

all deeply human that is very clear

we have full understanding of the rite

and know the meaning all the words incite

into the sacred silence of this space

hope for escape from the old mortal plight

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

prince you have asked about that magic night

and how the mass of sound was got just right

across the world i tell you to your face

you had to be there darkness vanished quite

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

just beyond the wall

the normal vision of the human way

is what we bring at first into each mind

in hope that when we are by fate confined

in the beige cubes of ordinary day

no creeping horrors will come out to prey

on thoughts that must to wider worlds be blind

for fear of just exactly what we'd find

if honest brain was let come out to play

but there are dragons just beyond the wall

the child inside will know though adults fail

so often just to open up their eyes

or let their ears adjust to hear the call

of beings greater than the normal scale

moving their wings across the winter skies

in the mist

already buds are forming on each tree

visible through the february mist

this sign of coming spring won't be dismissed

life makes to us its yearly guarantee

that after darkness comes the jubilee

while all of nature's colours still persist

and will explode the roadsides will be kissed

with  light again all life yearns to be free

in each heart hides a promissory note

from past to future valid for all time

worth all the stories that our folk have told

to be redeemed when we are called to vote

weighed in the balance and cleansed of all grime

for a true substance worth far more than gold

in one embrace

so much is meant but carried in each head

is other freight the which no one could lift

without some aid to take us cross the rift

that separates our bodies that's the dread

that strikes all of a sudden with a red

intensity that's hot as well as swift

but gives way fortunately to your gift

and the great sweetness of all that you've said

time's not enough for all the forms of play

nor for the music that love can require

of us but life goes by at such a pace

clip that years compress into just one day

while we are still warmed by the same fire

and held together in the same embrace

awakening from fever (for gail)

what's meant is caring so deep into night

when fever drives me so far round the twist

i cannot be brought back without assist

yet when my mind is clear you are still bright

as summer noonday this is my best sight

of joyous wonder but the entire gist

of what i say is this that you exist

is total magic plus you set things right

this little gift of words is small return

for all those hours of complete devotion

for being there each time push came to shove

but words take time to make and each must learn

to take some time to gentle life's commotion

and know the meaning of what's truly love

kindness remembered (in memoriam, Wilmot Perkins, 1931-2012)

what matters in the end is you were kind

even to those you thought far in the wrong

which brought its wisdom and it made you strong

when the all the shouters said you undermined

goodness itself while you cursed them for blind

unpatriotic fools chanting their lone song

always so eager to make pain last long

while you desired to open up each mind

now that is in the past and what is left

is wisdom recollect gentle words and soft

suggestions made without pretence or guile

we see so clearly how all ends in theft

of those things we have held highest aloft

but we will all get to there in a while

global warming

the miracle of winter blossoms bright

against dull ground and weeds so sharply green

this early in the year what can it mean

as we inspect the gutters in clear light

nobody questions the unusual sight

yet each must know exactly what is seen

still fools expect some force to intervene

and set the balance of all things just right

the world's upset and we have lost our way

among the mirrors that we set to trap

unwary minds and those with little sense

too many seem to think the whole thing's play

as we are drowning in our own dumb crap

unable to tell true act from pretense

daffodils in february

in february when there should be frost

bright daffodils present in yellow bloom

such firm rejection of the winter gloom

it makes me smile not all the past is lost

and there are things that death will not consume

in february when there should be frost

we look on beauty and don't count the cost

of what it means to have full life resume

but take each step and see beyond the doom

in february when there should be frost

wrung into silence

if asked what happened and there's no reply

that can be safely given that is true

do not evade the words that stick like glue

on your mouth's roof and just refuse to fly

where you most want them there's a reason why

your tongue's not obedient why you might rue

that former ease of discourse when askew

the complex facts make it so hard to lie

not now nor ever will the monster wait

to let you finish but will swiftly pounce

upon your weakest utterance and yell

that here's false coin pretending noble state

worth less than nothing for each tawdry ounce

you hear this all as clear as the noon bell

echoes of the prosper road

the nightly croaking from the pond

recalls another time and place

the sounds do not quite correspond

but have an equal sort of grace

what's winter here has turned so mild

that we can see the forceful green

reminder of the nearby wild

just inches past the window screen

those arguments that we have made

regarding mother nature's pain

seem all at once a sad charade

as weeds spring up after the rain

what we have learnt is very clear

about the cycles in their course

of tropic or of temperate year

they have the same gigantic force

the frogs that croak in pond or tree

ignoring us proclaiming life

for their short passage do live free

and teach us something about strife

under the cloud

those are the places that have lost their names

gaining thereby not even a tin piece

that some bright spark might give out of caprice

too keep hope going in the complex games

of pride and anger but there are few shames

that will get those who've been fucked just to cease

once they've been shown up for all time as geese

since they'd much rather go into the flames

all tortures will destroy those who are brave

no matter what they say but never mind

there are no secrets will be left intact

on this side of the shelter of the grave

hope will remain for those who still are kind

to all who know just how their world is wracked

the pressure of recall

now there are echoes now hear silence fall

along with sunset all across the hill

for one short moment shadows on the wall

seem like the symbols of gigantic will

writing in darkest inks the coming night

not as despair but as remaking right

there is so much to do so much to say

our choices not so clear at end of day

but this is duty we are bound to cope

with all the tasks and burdens on our way

for we have nothing if we have not hope

we're told the journey's never for the small

and we don't doubt it there's a monstrous bill

that must be paid and horrors will befall

those who can't argue with sufficient skill

against their masters those with honest sight

have some good chance of seeing the new light

while those whose strategy is to delay

may find there are some other costs to pay

and twists and turns on the trip up the slope

but no great monsters that we'll need to slay

for we have nothing if we have not hope

on crest of mountain there's a merry hall

and those who get there do not come to ill

yet there's no triumph that would be so small

a payment for the effort and goodwill

that we put in nor are we folk of might

to carouse and rejoice on the warm height

just actors in one scene of a long play

torn between tragedy and cabaret

happy enough to have some towels and soap

to clean up at the end of a long day

for we have nothing if we have not hope

prince you may think that we have gone astray

stepped out of line and lost all our cachet

but there's a lot of play left to our rope

we will be watching for the sun's first ray

for we have nothing if we have not hope

on unburnt ground

no echo here but silence tightly wound

upon the spindle of the rising year

has its effect on this our unburnt ground

where moths and spider in their turn appear

in pallid sheen with shadows most austere

our voices falter we do not belong

in place or time when memories are strong

ears are alert for the first human sound

for that one thing that we might hold most dear

explaining why the quiet is so profound

and why each heart must feel the touch of fear

before new day but nothing will come clear

the birds are sleeping this night will last long

cold hours must pass before we hear their song

there's no one present to teach or expound

those complex riddles about which we care

such folk of comfort are never around

when there's a nasty chill upon the air

or complications in the great affair

they simply vanish still if we prolong

our patient waiting dawn will strike the gong

some proper answer remains to be found

the process seeming almost cavalier

it being grasped and purposed on rebound

seeming to be the waste of a career

but those who cannot feel have yet to hear

the truth of where they are and we belong

in proper place to right all that went wrong