on shores of wider seas

above the tower a single vulture floats
we wait and wait to see just who has died
on earth we see the ones with heavy coats
and wonder just what sins they have to hide
in the far distance the returning boats
their sails are bouyed up by the winds of pride
and then the bell that chimes a solemn note
to warn the creatures that live in the moat

a time like this might well count as the best
for ones who cannot any future see
we're made to understand it's all a test
and what counts is the buzzing of the bee
first comes the one in cloak and then the rest
wait in the shadow of the tallest tree
it's not that we can some reform still make
but that the giant's washing in the lake

a moment that might stretch into an hour
and then we have to make the proper move
the vulture still observes the lonely tower
the mechanism's moving in its groove
there's time to bathe or take a simple shower
and nothing left for anyone to prove
changes may come to us from far beyond
while the wise fish still swims within her pond

no certain harbour

a mention of this is enough to frighten
the bravest warrior into greater speed
the pile of words never seems to lighten
we read and think and stop again to read
words that no longer cheer and brighten
thoughts that can satisfy no human need
the beacon's lit and war is on the way
but we don't pause just to enjoy the day

the moral of each tale we must belabour
there's never enough reason for our lies
the food we eat has never had a savour
the dunghill is replete with hungry flies
the nobleman must bear a foil or sabre
and fuss about with foolish silken ties
priests who command a weary folk to pray
aren't ready for the ones who simply slay

a time for careful thought

what gods peer out from these bewildered trees
we cannot tell for their names are quite dead
a moments calm and then the whirling breeze
a sort of dance but one that's filled with dread
we fear what's hidden from the one who sees
the true decision's kept within each head
a matter of the heart we choose to think
and then we find ourselves right on the brink

the weather's broken but there's not yet rest
our knowledge cannot shield us from the fire
what proof there is comes out of this hard test
the wisest know they're preaching to the choir
and yet they tell us we must give our best
we're not the ones who need to be assuaged
and yet you know that we've the weather gauged

storms come and go and what's left is not sweet
the warmest greetings go to the worst sort
we aren't so sure that we've the proper meat
and yet we know that we won't be caught short
we think that we're entitled to some treat
but we are not the ones with friends at court
evening must spread to one and all her balm
we know this and we know we must be calm

when the tune ends

watching the dance one wonders what he sees
at any point the movement makes no sense
we know the movement's due just to the breeze
and the leafy branches aren't heavy or dense
the cloudy sky does little more than tease
and to a cooling rain makes no pretense
but right now i'm not sure just what i need
certainly hunger matters more than greed

one who observes might think about the sight
of simple movement in the pallid green
it's clear enough to us who have the light
but in the dark we're not sure what is seen
danger won't come with falling of the night
but in the passive moments in between
at this we might complain about the fact
but then we'd be accused of wanting tact

the elements of power aren't just for show
when they are used they'll signify or mean
and let us understand just what we know
before they fade right back to the unseen
life's more than just a simple ebb and flow
understanding comes from truths we glean
our swift beginnings will soon be pursued
by those who want to crush the multitude

at times we ask for things that we'll resent
when we have got them and we'll want to cry
because we'll have misstated our intent
and every claim we make becomes a lie
too late at that harsh moment to prevent
the loosening of the most valued tie
the music that we obtain from each liar
will not keep us from falling in the fire

at no time would be want to hear the play
of thoughts and concepts turned into a dance
we aren't the ones who laugh at coming day
but fall when night comes into a deep trance
because of fear that we might lose our way
and we don't want to give up our last chance
the ones who answer aren't the ones who stole
but eagerly will take up their last role

again we're asked just what we need to do
before the house can rise and sweet birds glide
on rising thermals that will take them through
to places where the brave might fear to ride
our so-called masters haven't the least clue
of where to go and when they'll take a side
because when they've gone down into the field
they've not the least idea of who should yield

in proper time the music should announce
just who will come to take their proper place
justice will hand out to the final ounce
what's due to each and what belongs in space
our betters will not fear now to pronounce
just who deserves to win or lose the race
but at the termination shall pretend
they always knew the proper time and end

where none has gone before

Across the distance messages return
from star-dates long forgotten by the stars;
the symbols in the crystal glow and burn,
embers of Klingon and Romulan wars.
And now we all such strife and conflict spurn,
and settle our disputes in spaceport bars.
Although some memories still rankle and vex
we celebrate, each in their turn, these treks.

From former neutral zone and wartime front
come tired heroes; they've been to and fro
from Picard's calm to some old Kirk-like stunt
they'll continue with their mission, make it so
whether they're diplomatic or they're blunt;
for the primal imperative is to boldly go.
And atoms, like infinitives, smash and split
yet, somehow, on each voyage, there is wit.

To distant quadrants of which nothing's known
by dynamic forces which they can't control
but which can't overcome them, they'll be blown;
alien and cyborg each find a human soul
and Vulcan shows his heart is not a stone.
To broaden human knowledge still the goal.
What, though we wonder, will their journey find
more wonderful than the frail human mind?

On deep space station there's another cause
controlling diverse species passing through;
aliens and humans finding common laws
are not enough, and yet each gets their due.
Each faces and comes to master normal flaws,
and each comes to take the other's point of view.
What binds them all together is the start
of shared understanding in each sapient heart.

And even pioneers, on their first enterprise
shocked and delighted by the things they found;
warmed, hurt, or frozen under alien skies
but still determined to stand on human ground.
Learning to sort hard truths from the soft lies
and ears attuning to the sphere's great sound.
No quantum leap this from earth to deep space
and yet we know this is their rightful place.

what's here doesn't answer

if when we ask for sense we get a stone
and told that this is the best form of bread
we can't expect the criminal to atone
unless his heart is filled with fear and dread
but that's not a thing for us here alone
who have been sheltered watered fed
enough that there's been a grave crime
but not enough to punish him with rhyme

on one side sea and on the other land
the beach is long and lined with cheap hotels
we dodge the gulls and the terns stand
their feet firmly placed on small clam shells
there's so much here we need to understand
while from above the fool inanely yells
we've learned that someone tells the story
in order to make sure they get the glory

we're far from sea here up two thousand feet
the trees outside are turning a pale green
i strain to hear the noises from the street
my thoughts are all about what's gone and been
the hour has not yet come when we must meet
i've learned to count the things that i have seen
movements in dust and debris here abound
i listen for the perfection of new sound

where there's a will there's usually much gold
each of us does our duty for a plain fee
we've seen the ones who don't duly get rolled
hope is not something you pluck off a tree
we have to do the things that we are told
but in our hearts we won't really agree
our course though is mapped out and worse
we can't summon the energy to curse

name the new obligation and we'll run
as fast as feet will carry us we'll be well hid
there's not a need to wonder if all's in fun
we've managed to keep our pictures off the grid
our activities will the most jaded come to stun
but we'll not be found guilty god forbid
the messages we've got will have to keep
till we've been able to obtain true sleep

Salamis

The stories we are told feature rich muscle boys
(you bulk up big if you spend each day in the gym),
who with swords, spears, and suchlike murder-toys,
and after chanting their great battle-hymn,
proceeded to show invading foes the joys
of battling men with huge reserves of vim.
At least that is the tale that we've been told,
it's hoary now and certainly very old.

So they were brave, and they stood at the pass,
and their press spokesfolk knew how best to spin
the story, so that when they lay dead in the grass
they scored a kind of virtuous late win
and who says otherwise is condemned as an ass.
So others fought with them at that grave hour,
but from the page their efforts we will scour.

And when some fellows make a picture show
to hearten friends and remind them of brave deeds,
we see these heroes bathed in the noble glow
of men who had transcended human needs;
they fought in honour, trading blow for blow,
planting our liberty (or at any rate its seeds).
That's not what really happened there, of course,
but someone thinks we need a fellow on a horse.

Now freedom's a thing which no good man will lose
but with his life itself, or so it has been said;
there are some fellows (no names now) who'd choose
thralldom instead since it beats being dead.
But they're the folks whose path we cannot use,
and so we cut the cord and burn the thread.
We'll laud our heroes to beyond the skies,
though, frankly, we'll have to spin lots of lies.

But we're told nothing of the humbler type
the artisans and craftsmen, the hoe men
come from their fields, and boats, and ripe
with honest sweat, to take up the old job again.
without histrionics, screams, or other tripe,
the just ask where to row and pull and when
to drop their oars and grab their spears and swords,
common they are, but they fight as well as lords.

Sure, you can write an epitaph or two,
name heroes, speak of mothers' quick-dried tears;
allow their actions to pass in full review,
and speak about them all for years and years.
Until no one will ask 'what did they do?'
but think of how they conquered all their fears.
They're large now that they were in real life,
each of them a hero, even to his wife.

But Aechylus tugged on a long wood oar,
he saw a battle and he took his part.
His play's the thing, it will not lull nor bore,
he was the master of the playwright's art.
There's blood indeed, offstage, and guts, and gore,
but still the enemy's shown to have a heart.
He took his place, beside the common folk,
who fought together to resist the yoke.

The moral here, if I'm allowed to preach,
is not that epitaphs are no great guide
(or that their job is to instruct and teach),
we know they fought by the mountain's side
knowing that victory was past their reach;
we know that they took the most somber pride
in holding on even well past the breach.
It's certainly a major point of honour,
if you fight on knowing that you're a goner.

We're fed on lies proclaimed historic fact,
we're told that we should honour these brave souls;
we're told to exercise restaint and tact,
acknowledge that these men had noble goals.
We can't our praise and honour now retract
although their bodies have been cast in holes.
It angers us, though, that the rich and proud
should have their virtues so proclaimed aloud.

Victory came from quite ordinary chaps,
men who did their jobs, and then went home;
we don't see their burials marked on any maps,
no one in their honour has put up any dome.
They ran their race, they reached the final laps,
but they didn't stray or run or roam.
Instead they fought just to defend their land,
victory came from the hard rowers' hand.