Rear view

 I came, I saw, I shuddered at the thought 

that all of my achievements will mean nought.

Our final judgment is always regret

 So many words, but none of them are true,

for none of us is certain of the right, 

since any turn is sure to let us rue

not just the lions we failed to pursue 

when we were armed, and they were within sight.

So many words, but none of them are true 

when we're not able to shine, nor to renew 

our inner senses, out of shock or fright,

since any turn is sure to make us rue.

We counted years, and saw how fast they flew 

as we first gained and then lost all our might;

so many words, but none of them are true.

We each look backward, and conclude that few

of our small deeds can be saved from the night 

since any turn is sure to make us rue.

Yet still we're hopeful of finding the clue

to how we may leave records in the light.

So many words, but none of them are true

since any turn is sure to make us rue.

Daffodils

 A man sees early flowers beside a lake

and thinks them a fit subject for kind thought.

He could not know his poem would be taught

across an age. His words would come to make

so many future children by mistake 

conclude that flowers were images that caught 

the truth of poetry, thus having naught

of meaning for the future they would make.

But minor pleasures are not the true bright stuff

of all the suffering, and of all the joy,

that poems may capture and bring into sight

of a fresh world accessible to rough

and gentle both, that lets us each enjoy 

the magic that brings life into the light.

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 

After creation there is pain

In the beginning not a single sound,

only the action of the hopeful wise 

who add together, in a sole surmise,

the meanings of air, and water, and ground.

Whatever fluids, or solids, surround

is real, and visible to normal eyes;

but what contains the actual surprise 

is what we can retain, but not impound.

The secret message that lies softly curled

in inmost chamber of the beating heart 

teaches each of us how we must survive

in this new, rough, intractable, hard world.

Achievement is the solitary art

that keeps the ordinary sort alive.

Why bother?

 Out of our sleep, we face a brand-new day

with aspirations to a better sight,

as every shadow of the broken night 

hides from the brilliance of the open way.

Rain tells us we do not have room for play

since that’s the culmination of the bright,

sunny eruptions of the morning light.

We’re in another episode of life,

where, failing hope, the only choice is work,

and what we get is just to take the blame

when sober argument turns into strife

between day’s hero, and the angry jerk 

who wants the morning to collapse in shame.

Supposing that we learn

We wait each day for the magical sign

that indicates just how the work must start,

it’s time now to take all we need apart,

and then restore it in a simple line.

There’s every chance all forces intertwine,

so cannot break, the wise creator’s art

ensures that his work stands out in the mart,

and we discover all we do is fine.

When winter comes again we do not stand 

in places where we must bend to the cold 

but in the shelters we’d already made.

What’s needed here is simply a strong hand,

and ready vision, now we can be bold

urging the start of a wonderful trade.

The game’s no longer of any worth

It matters not that there’s a hostile guard,

there’s a rough way right past another gate 

leading us home, but we will be so late,

that we’ll hear words both horrible and hard,

defining each of us as a retard,

with many failures set down on the slate.

So we have reached the deepest hell of fate 

below the palaces where we once starred.

I have the sense that we are out of time,

that there’s no option leading to the light 

since our existence is a horrid crime,

a terror to the ordinary sight,

last proof that we are only stinking slime,

and should be all forgotten in the night.

I fear I have no path towards the light

 I thought there was a way that I could chance

to get me to the tallest mountain’s height;

I seemed to be both capable and bright,

but had no thought of how I could advance.

The world I  knew as  straight had gone askance,

and I am left with horror, and with fright

for the path ahead leads straight toward the night.

Should I choose life when all now seems in vain,

the way ahead  is only dirt and clay,

the worst pretense of an advancing road

towards an ending that ‘s as clear and plain

as the appearance of a brand-new day,

and bearing now a painful heavy load.

So should I take the other choice?

 I looked at life, and saw that I had failed 

to reach the targets that my talents saw 

as the achievements that would lead to awe.

But, nonetheless, we learnt that the detailed 

approach meant that the mountains I had scaled 

were the wrong range, I bore too large a flaw

to take first place. I did not know the law 

meant that I always risked being jailed.

Time is the lord, no matter what the road

I take he manages to wear to sand

leaving no choice but to abandon hope.

There is no worldly force to act as goad

for me to run uphill, or just to lope

towards a place that is no longer grand.

This morning everything is wrong

Understanding is never the whole view,

the actual facts are always hard to know,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

The map shows us that all the roads are new,

but something tells us it is just a show,

understanding is never the whole view 

of our sweet valley, where the warm winds blew,

yet all we comprehend is the breeze blow,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

The news all day turns pleasant into blue,

there’s no way now to interrupt the flow;

understanding is never the full view.

We tried together, we the smallest crew

of the whole fleet, but we turned out too slow,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

We’ve gone beyond the lands our fathers knew, to deserts, and high mountains of deep snow.

Understanding is never the full view,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

Seeing the ancestors (for Geoffrey Philp)

 Each tree is history in silent voice,

marking birth of small, and death of the great 

while bearing flower and fruit as marks of fate.

What we call “freedom”is no more than choice

of whether to keep quiet, or to outvoice 

the old captain, and the wise young first mate,

to make for closest harbor, and rejoice.

What’s hidden under soil no one now knows,

we want our past to be a place of pain.

We praise the ancestors, but not their might 

of patience, caution, and rage with hands on hoes,

and hands on cutlass, making it most plain

that while held in the dark they saw the light.