For MM ætat LXX anno MMVII

I still remember listening to music in your campus home,
the drive up to Munro, your flowing supply of tales,
your patient ignoring at my young poet's vain wails
at plain critique. Across the years my thoughts roam,
days wholly gone, vanished like the last sea-foam,
into pale nothingness. You write of the sharp nails
in Christ's hard hands, you work out the details
in tightest lines. An epigram says much more than a tome.
Your words reverberate with brightly living scenes,
with kindest regards, and yet each honestly chosen
in a brilliant flash, not one embroidered; simple, straight.
We see beneath, we know what each poem means,
we know that the moment has been held and frozen,
each word, each letter, bears its fullest weight.

to warm the copper nose

for all this sweetness so much sweat and pain
the lash that bites and draws fresh blood
men's feet haphazard shod with dirt and mud
their need to be out in both sun and rain
all backs bent nearly double with the strain
those angry blows that fall with heavy thud
wild rush to get all in before the flood
all work is urgent on this tropic plain
there's all of history to set the proper tone
the nodding plants all tell such lovely lies
and all these stories must be overcome
each malefactor must repent alone
and bellow truth to the uncaring skies
think of the sorrow that goes into the rum

onomastics

the names for places tell a bitter tale
of conquest hatred love and total loss
of who we were but if you give a toss
you've set yourself up really to fail
the brightest noon itself will pale
our history is forever on the cross
and every story has a darker gloss
all truths are lost on the long trail
ignorance exacts a different price
a loss of innocence when all is known
and every window opens on our shame
souls and bodies are caught in a vice
the pain and desperation all are shown
and someone else bears all the blame

nothing is happening

the scent of death contaminates the day
we close our eyes and wish it were not there
we hold our breaths and hope for cleaner air
we wonder what could happen on the way
but as we all remember what to say
our words do not all choke on our fear
we wonder who'll be next to get the spear
while behind doors the sullen children play
the sure salvation of our rotted hearts
is by a road that few will dare to walk
unless their minds of hope and sense are free
instead we play the usual assigned parts
stay silent unless compelled to talk
and turn our backs to the wide open sea

winter playground

in every snowball there's a solid stone
the shock you get is sudden pain not cold
and when you cry you find yourself alone

the gash in your arm's open to the bone
no one wants to hear the tale you've told
in every snowball there's a solid stone

only a baby has leave to bawl or moan
your temper and your anguish you must hold
and when you cry you find yourself alone

one moment laughing next in the twilight zone
that's how the rapid process will unfold
in every snowfall there's a solid stone

what you held certain now becomes unknown
that's quite a bill of goods you have been sold
and when you cry you find yourself alone

they all will laugh when you complain or groan
the villain is the one who gets the gold
in every snowfall there's a solid stone
and when you cry you find yourself alone

classroom early evening

the looming massive buildings of red brick
glow in the setting sun with russet fire
their meanings twining hope and desire
between the vanished and the quick
but nothing holds light doesn't stick
and dull and leaden now require
another voice a new and different lyre
praising them now that should do the trick
whatever we require of coming night
we will regret before return of day
that's the return of sorrow and of pain
but still we bid farewell to this day's light
there's a new scene in the continued play
and there will be a cleansing with the rain

ends matter not beginnings

if there's a time when we deserve the sun
then that might be in evening not morn
the sunset matters far more than the dawn
and at the end we know who's lost or won
the journey's best at end not when begun
those who make it deserve praise not scorn
we judge folk at their ending not when born
the race isn't over until it has been run
that is the time when one should get the prize
not in the glitter at the starting line
but when one's breasting the final tape
there should be light sufficient for all eyes
it's in that moment that we things define
we praise the wine and do not judge the grape

into the trenches

no place that we have made our own
for hours or days or months or years
has been worth a shrug or even tears
as each time we head to the unknown
onto what vehicles we bags have thrown
doesn't seem to matter beyond all fears
wherever we go we bring all of our cares
and duty has its seat upon the throne
now this is a different and a sharper turn
what we do will matter a long road
so we go with step both calm and wary
the things we get will be ones that we earn
the burdens those we choose to load
and that's both wonderful and scary

ego and superego

the sound of my name is a thing that i hate
it's my sole inheritance the one thing left
by my father without it i would be bereft
and so i suppose it is my weary fate
to bear it to pass through each daily gate
wearing it on a lanyard with little heft
but still there, still part of the total weft
that is my life it is who i am i must state
and yet this label this graphic mark
is not my self though it's what others know
it claims to be a whole but is not part
it is not there when in the warm dark
i sleep and wander where all sleepers go
but every day it finds me like a dart

for mervyn at seventy

a poem should be tight as a virgin's cunt
subtlety's a plus though not the only one
words should shine bright as morning sun
and when needed should be short and blunt
each poem's a complex sort or stunt
you're never sure that you have got it done
until the rhythms like spring water run
joy is the heart of every writer's hunt
what you taught stays that's just the case
when the teacher is the one who really knows
not just the craft but how to teach the art
each poem takes up a particular space
as in the garden each fresh herb or rose
sits where it best rewards the soul and heart

angle of vision

the hills that we see lead to greater heights
and when we reach them there's another hill
that we must climb if we have yet the will
to struggle through the warmest days and nights
we never announce the secret fears and frights
that we'll be ground so finely by the mill
instead we hope that what we learn won't kill
and that we'll have the answer dead to rights
though ill and tired we will not say we're weak
but pull our feet up step by weary step
unto the places where we have hoped to be
there's a reward when on the highest peak
we find a way to revive or hope and pep
when from a distance we observe the sea

generosity

if we provide a place where you may sleep
in all the safety that this world provides
we would expect your thanks to be quite deep

there's nothing that we can create or keep
that won't in time force us to taking sides
if we provide a place where you may sleep

the hours of darkness much more slowly creep
in all those places where there are no tides
we would expect your thanks to be quite deep

you won't be cast aside thrown on the heap
this is no place where mastery derides
if we provide a place where you may sleep

in time we'll comfort you for each failed leap
and will not smile at those uneven strides
we would expect your thanks to be quite deep

our charity would bring the strong to weep
it would not do them any good besides
if we provide a place where you may sleep
we would expect your thanks to be quite deep

the glitter attracts

where the diamonds glint filling the heart with greed
there's nothing there that i would want or desire
but others know the heat of the unsacred fire
and cannot make the break between desire and need
each gemstone is a kind of sterile seed
that raises hopes but also raises ire
and when its task is done makes us require
the things on which our nature dares not feed
now here we have the answer that we sought
which gives us neither solace nor regret
but cannot give us what we really want
which is to cross the ditch between is and ought
find what will in the end all pains forget
and will resist the fiercest jibe or taunt

from the panopticon

it's not the motive that counts but the lack of consent
the effect's the same as if done with forethought
crime's judged as an act not as a matter of intent

we can't avoid it by shifting of emphasis or accent
this is the kind of story that can't in the end be bought
it's not the motive that counts but the lack of consent

but what if in the doing we pause and then repent
turn ourselves in without waiting to be caught
crime's judged as an act not as a matter of intent

the hounds of justice are a breed that never will relent
the consequences are those that you have wrought
it's not the motive that counts but the lack of consent

the tree that bears the bitterest fruit is bent
by all the weight of pain and wasted thought
crime's judged as an act not as a matter of intent

the last cry will be heard we know you will lament
the chances that were lost the battles left unfought
it's not the motive that counts but the lack of consent
crime's judged as an act not as a matter of intent

producing light not heat

When we use words we know just what they mean
but on their way to others' ears they change
and on arrival sound bizarre, fragmented, strange
both in their form and meaning. We have seen
this happen enough times in our lives, have been
aware that all signs and signifiers will range
between the possible and plausible, in exchange
we learn to keep our senses sharp and keen.
Now, when some villain enters with vile intent
to trap and shear those innocent as sheep
we rise as one and drive her from the stage;
we hope with all our hearts that they repent,
but also know that justice will not keep;
we know what message stays clear on the page.

and now it is the time

if when the sun at last warms the metal chair
and you can tough the walls without a shiver
your body rejects all pain and does not quiver
in grief or anguish now what seems most fair
is that you've come to understand and care
and know that you can at all times deliver
the warmth that's needed before that last river
you'll have some satisfaction for your share
now for the light to make us all feel blessed
by joyous day to walk without a qualm
would be enough to make the sad rejoice
this has been real it has not been a test
in deepest winter you have brought true balm
the answers were all given in good voice

in the name of freedom

we see those faces on the television screen
their voices calm or angry yet we're told they're wise
though when we judge their words they all are lies
we're compelled to take our places in the machine
and accept as honest what's really obscene
or else we'll be subjected to the spies
and though the odour rises to the skies
we're reassured that everything is clean
in hidden prisons we've punished weak men
who stand accused of crimes that in a court
would be dismissed with anger by a judge
but we're afraid that awful day will come again
and don't want at that time to be caught short
so from our insane choice we will not budge

still round the corner

we shape our minds to fit the thought of dance
our bodies move with only sluggish grace
and though the tired musicians set the pace
the end result seems an outcome of chance
the heavy feet that we have do not prance
we've grown too bored to make of it a race
and not a one of us would want to chase
a thing or person without pay in advance
there isn't much that can be done or said
for those of us who've given up the fight
the way forward's no longer there for those
who can't think clearly whose minds in dread
demand the snuffing of every honest light
they want nay they demand leading by the nose

gauging the evening

in truth as the thermometer's numbers fall
i wonder at the need to measure warm and cold
we know the feelings know when to be bold
and wear little and when to don cloak and shawl
the numbers though their digits just enthrall
the mind we want to be properly told
the measure of the day not just to scold
weather's vagaries but not to feel so small
in the face of nature's force that's the reason
we keep the numbers there and watch the change
as day succeeds day over the year's long course
even though once we know what the season
is then we know what temperatures will range
over the day but knowledge wants a source

Scorn not the sonnet

We've not said much about the villanelle
(as rigorous as the sonnet but more hard),
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

We've many things to our good friends to tell,
we've stories to print out by foot and yard;
we've not said much about the villanelle.

When profiteering idiots make us yell
there are no limits, and no holds are barred,
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

The truth is that, regular as a church bell,
we feel the anguish when some hope is marred;
we've not said much about the villanelle.

We're angered by the lies and the hard sell,
to those who want no more than good regard,
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

And when we've driven forth the evil smell
it's time, we think, lay down our firm guard.
We've not said much about the villanelle
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

at a point we arrive

each step that comes seems to give us pause
there's reason here for doubt and for derision
we question both our luck and our depth vision
and wonder whether we're effect or cause
but we make our way without need for applause
our minds are made up we've made the incision
into the matter of life itself with due precision
we've obtained the fullest approbation of the laws
never before have we gone down this road
each step's uncertain and the way is very long
but each step brings us so much nearer the goal
we do not worry about cargo for the load
is suited to our backs and we shall be strong
enough to make the whole journey seem a stroll

et in arcadia ego

each memory that comes when i must write
takes me to places that are now far away
the journeys to them take up a whole day
or else you have to fly there overnight
and spend long hours in that one single flight
with memory to sustain you on the way
remembering the sun setting in the bay
or else the odd milkiness of sky at night
nothing here till now could mean as much
as what things did when all of life was young
but what i have is what i've earned so far
still in my memory i find the ready touch
of all old hopes and words trip off the tongue
while in the east there rises a new star

every down is an up

the sun today deceives and we know that
the wind will tear our very souls to shreds
but still it does not enter our hard heads
to remain confined in our warm cosy flat
but we've got work to do and there's no cat
to keep us pinned down snugly in our beds
we must take up again the silver threads
and do our duty without playing the brat
and yet the leaves on every evergreen
blown by the breeze are signals of a hope
we know we're going to find the thing that's ours
and that we will discover that we've been
ascending with firm tread the final slope
there's nothing here that's set beyond our powers

this is for you

there's not a frame for what we really mean
the days and nights seem like a magic whirl
around the moon the fat clouds must curl
and you my dear one are my love and queen
the rain has brought back the warmest green
across the sky stars bright messages can hurl
you are nature's jewel the finest brightest pearl
this was meant for us not one thing between
the dream and the appearance this moment's ours
the power and the light of it give us fresh joy
not any more the shattered spaces the unmade
being that calls in hope now each day flowers
in every colour of desire and though we toy
with every moment we know this will not fade

no room today for heroes

no birds are singing as the sun goes down
the world's in mourning for what it is not sure
the illness that we suffer calls for a sudden cure
but all we've got are a quacksalver and a clown
if we could choose to smile and not to frown
we might wonder just what we could secure
from those who wanting to harry the impure
are willing to sacrifice the village and the town
the trees and shrubs that winter storms withstand
are never asked why they have made that choice
instead we just expect them to stand there
we give them nothing nothing comes from each hand
but in their silence we can detect a voice
that speaks to us in accents free from fear

the hoped for thing

there are days when the job seems like a load
on the back of a tired donkey there's no ease
even from sleep my mind is trying to seize
on what to teach and there's no rest on the road
and work does not cease when in my own abode
i have so many masters to serve and please
the cycle gives us all its rhythmical reprise
and need and thought each functions as a goad
but there are times when everything just moves
in perfect process when you see the light
come on in every eye when they come to realize
that what's made and known is the thing that proves
just when it works and what has to be right
each day i hope for those awakened eyes

duty matches beauty

the music is gathered here from many places
its tone and impact differ every time
this is a proper mode for airs and graces

the working man elusive dollars chases
paying the price in pain and dirt and grime
the music is gathered here from many places

hard-working women put through their paces
by morons feel the dead weight of slime
this is a proper mode for airs and graces

and all the children with their dirty faces
with energy and not yet in their prime
the music is gathered here from many places

yet still we feel all have gone out to the races
to watch their horses which is not a crime
this is a proper mode for airs and graces

the fact which collective effort here displaces
is that some moments yet may be sublime
this is a proper mode for airs and graces
the music is gathered here from many places

the kingdom came

in the beginning we came from the sea
took our places on these lands with sorrow
worked without hope longed for a new morrow
and wondered what it meant just to be free
that would not happen save by high decree
and so we toiled and hoped to borrow
patience with every hole and furrow
and hope that somebody would hear our plea
now from the summer sun we've learned
there's now a chance to build our proper places
and have our toil not be distant and cold
for all these years the generations yearned
to be the masters of their own sweet faces
and get their tribute not in sweat but gold

What would I have been in 1400

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The Cardinal You scored 57% Cardinal, 33% Monk, 23% Lady, and 35% Knight!

You are the real power behind the throne. No one dares dispute or refuse you. Which is good because that's how you get things done. You are also, however, completely corrupt and highly immoral. This doesn't bother you in the least as you lounge around your rich comfortable surroundings, reveling in wealth and authority.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 99% on Cardinal You scored higher than 99% on Monk You scored higher than 99% on Lady You scored higher than 99% on Knight

Link: The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test written by KnightlyKnave on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test

rex non peccare potest

to give orders you need not know a thing
nor do you need to think we're here for that
you don't need the brainpower of a rat
you just need the friendship of our glorious king
the hard red stamp made by his seal ring
you can behave like a two-year-old brat
but your word will be final that is flat
if they don't like it you can make them swing
there's no doubt you'll be wielding power
over those who know what's best to do
but they'll need your permission to do it
and if they come at some ungodly hour
you'll make them flee you'll make them shoo
and watch as all that happens turns to shit

and yet it moves

in what space we fit the growing heart
matters to us because of the long strain
of winter with its solemn deep-grey rain
on what we find out is just a simple part
of normal life yet going with the grain
is not enough to win us the campaign
but shows up sure as shooting on the chart
there's no desire to block or to divest
the meanings that keep us in our places
but to allow us room for all our love
all our desire is that our lives be best
with nothing blowing up right in our faces
and no power descending from above

a fleeting gem

on every bare branch buds of water hang
a kind of spring announcement i suppose
each little jewel won't become a rose
but equally won't end with a big bang
the culmination will be drip not clang
but for the moment they're all in repose
no blossom though when sharp wind blows
nor fruit to come no odour and no tang
rain-produced diamonds in this faded light
the harbingers of better warmer days
what purpose have they in their silent speech
the rain that lasted most of the past night
will in its way brighten the sun's fresh rays
the import of this is well within our reach

the real questions

if there were a way to get to the place
that's clear and vibrant on the story's page
would we ask if anyone could gauge
whether we'd gain prestige or just lose face
when we would want to get out of the race
to find a place beyond the power of age
where there's no anger jealousy or rage
the marks of onward journey we'd erase
the magic kingdoms that we dreamt in youth
seem far more distant given every choice
we've made to journey to the life we've got
but somewhere in their image is our truth
the thing that we wish to give fullest voice
before our souls and fingers go to rot

so it does matter

the answer that comes is simple and plain
we're not to do things that cause trouble
the punishments then will be double
we've learned to come in from the rain
though when we see others in trauma and pain
we want to unpile all the trash and the rubble
but don't want to come out of our safety bubble
because our hearts won't take the strain
there's nothing to do with an answer like this
but shrug and go on with everyday life
and not say a thing that would start a new war
success is a matter of hit or of miss
the world is a story of horror and strife
and we've seen everything once before

the lands of dreams

the shame's no plane or ship will take us all the way
no map will show them though they are quite real
our desire is for abyssinia for serendip and far cathay

yet the journey takes but a moment not a whole day
we know the streets and villages and yet we feel
the shame's no plane or ship will take us all the way

the schoolboy pleasures the youthful joy and play
are gone forever but even so there's still the seal
our desire is for abyssinia for serendip and far cathay

the images that fill our minds we've made them stay
right where we want them that's the true appeal
the shame's no plane or ship will take us all the way

where have they gone though normal human clay
has the same limits still there's a better deal
our desire is for abyssinia for serendip and far cathay

the toils of life are ours our work will all vision slay
we'll not see all the places no new worlds will reveal
the shame's no plane or ship will take us all the way
our desire is for abyssinia for serendip and far cathay

an evasion

the sense of time that we get from the clocks
that sit on every wall and chide our pace
remind us that life's nothing but a race
from birth until we're locked down in the box
we do not get that from trees rivers rocks
their journey is much longer is no chase
of dollars honour or the warm embrace
or kisses as we're seen off at the docks
we've built ourselves a cage and love it not
without its frame we know ourselves for lost
it is the goal behind the last great hill
without its constraint our hope is simply shot
we dread the alternative for its cost
and do not wish to pay the doctor's bill

paying the butcher's bill

the lion that has eaten will not stalk
fresh prey until its meal has done its job
fear which makes each limb and digit throb
alarms us even when in light we walk
at the least shadow we startle and balk
the steadiest army turns into a mob
yet cannot hear the last sane soldier sob
and turn his half-bent back and walk
away into the night that has to be
when all our coverings are stripped away
and nothing's left but honesty and pride
the greatest fear is that we'll live to see
that time of horror that most gruesome day
and when it comes will have no place to hide

monsters from the id

in the deepest parts of every human past
where lie the things we most want to forget
beyond such simple matters as regret
there are old entities both swift and vast
that battle with each other and that cast
shadows in hearts that come with a great debt
that goes not unforgotten in the sweat
of conflict and that's there with the last blast
of any tocsin calling warriors to the fight
without which we would sink into ourselves
and never rise to confront the oldest fears
with all the weapons we can make of light
created new or brought up from the shelves
of every history and all will end in tears

why we fight

history is nothing but recorded pain
our true tale is that we still endure
we've never been perfect never sure
the human story is the human stain
yet we see things straight and plain
there's no limit and no real cure
for what we are of that we're sure
we've seen it all in sun and snow and rain
yet in the story there's a golden thread
now bright now dull but always there
we haven't always made the better choice
but in the face of terror and of dread
we've stood up overcome our infant fear
and given hope and decency a voice

geography of the heart

the country has no name we know it begins
just beyond the map's edge in the space
between dream and vision where the grace
of unknown gods redeems from undone sins
this notwithstanding there are so few inns
upon the road to get there's a long race
the strain of it will show upon your face
but the cautious lose and who dares wins
that is the motto and that is the tale
of those who chose to travel to that goal
where answers come although nothing is asked
this is beyond the last bent safety-rail
the place where every part joins in the whole
and where the true appearance is unmasked

mapmaking

when you've reached the top of the pass
pausing to rest you see that there is more
mountain ahead of you your feet are sore
but still you must advance your body's mass
onward down and up hill no simple class
prepares you gets you to learn the score
you imagine yourself a flying seed a spore
passing by trees and shrubs falling to grass
in the mind's eye you see it as a map
of where you've been and where you'll be
the simplified version of a normal life
there's danger here you'll fall into the trap
of seeing only what you desire to see
and forgetting all the necessary strife

on the street

if there's light we dare to dream of hope
in this harsh time for odours on the air
coming from flowers not from human fear
we understand the symbol or the trope
and so will not soft-pedal nor soft-soap
the message which is we just do not care
for your refusal we have learned to tear
the the gossamer that you mistake for rope
now with the sun we see the winter birds
in trees and gardens doing what they need
for their survival that now is a sign
clearer and more direct than simple words
the propaganda of the yearly deed
we cannot its sharp message more refine

no single step

when you've had time to on these things to reflect
don't rush to judgment others may be weak
but have some power do not your thoughts project
unless you've got a chance to obtain what you seek
without contempt either for soft or meek
you're not the only actor in this long play
nor yet the sole source and creator of critique
your feet may stumble long ere they find the way

you've not been paid nor will you soon collect
what is long due for your service this week
it would not be a good thing right now to interject
your message for you've gone far up the creek
and to speak now would demonstrate great pique
besides which they won't hear a word you say
you think your experience strange or unique
your feet may stumble long ere they find the way

there's no need here to accept or to reject
the thing that comes be it so smooth or sleek
it comes to us in gaudy form attractively bedecked
in robes much folded from which weapons peek
your choice is to be silent or else to shriek
in loudest proclamation of horror and dismay
announcing to the world your yellow streak
your feet may stumble long ere they find the way

prince your commander's received his pratique
they ship's made steam and must its anchor weigh
the course is set towards a port most chic
your feet may stumble long ere they find the way

cold stone

the fossil sponge that turns up in the rock
its creamy colour and its chalky feel
formed over long ages makes you reel
in horror at the thought or simple shock
at knowing that this piece of a stone block
was long passed over by some fish or eel
now high up a mountain turns the wheel
of time though for this being is no clock
the shapes of corals by the stone preserved
form a connection to a long-sought past
but give us nothing onto which to hold
what fate had these entities deserved
to survive petrified till seen by me at last
and what the messages they could have told

ignorant armies

the space appearing between is and ought
is where we live and where our lives unfold
we do not give this the least moment's thought

where once large armies massed and fought
there's nothing left but stones of a sheepfold
the space appearing between is and ought

the masterpiece the wise old farrier wrought
to show his skill and stave of growing old
we do not give this the least moment's thought

the gifts and sacrifices once were brought
to gods forgotten their shrines dead and cold
the space appearing between is and ought

then there were times that would-be hero sought
to find the chance to show that they were bold
we do not give this the least moment's thought

all in the end we know are trapped and caught
in history's net they all have bought and sold
the space appearing between is and ought
we do not give this the least moment's thought

hating the morning

in the grey light when shadows merge with walls
comes now the shaper of the fullest days
emboldened now to take the longest ways
around the streets and by the market-stalls
not here or now the long and marbled halls
where troubadours on lutes sang their old lays
or places where the watcher shouted praise
of the returning lords such matter never palls
but here and now the weak and wintry light
uncovers nothing more than what it hides
and gives us each a sense of what we've lost
not here or now the shock of sudden sight
of what is coming soon and on what sides
each of us will fight and at what hidden cost

first cup of coffee

not that you take your steps without a pause
for thought or changing bag from hand to hand
or caught in a thought or vision you just stand
perfectly still considering what the cause
might be or how the operation follows fixed laws
you're in a place where no applause is canned
and every singer hopes to beat the band
the rules are clear there is no secret clause
now when the music comes on in the dark
your feet move of themselves in the old dance
and years drop off for a moment of pure shock
that is the sign of transformation the clear mark
that says that nothing happens just by chance
yet when we're all done there is no solid rock

they also serve

in the evening as the shadows turn to night
i sit and pause before the next big task
relax my face and for a moment slip the mask
looking to see that there's none to affright
i know in the mirror i must be a real sight
drooping after long hours and no small flask
to revive or madden me nor the chance to ask
for some relief some means to make all right
before the call of duty once more draws me out
to do the careful dance that earns the meagre pay
that's my allotment others might remark
that all in all i'd have some cause to shout
with joy not anger at the long workday
for in my way i'm holding back the dark

unexpected success

if in the final pinch we turn to fight
and faces bloodied find that we have won
it does not seem like victory for none
of us recall just how the final might
was on our side although we're in the right
still it was on their side that the morning sun
was fairer their ranks were dressed and done
while we shambled and stumbled into the light
there isn't much that we could do or say
after such triumph with its taste of ash
but wonder how we came out of it so well
that at the end though tired we had the day
those who foretold it we deemed as rash
and thought that all our chances were in hell

spelman college winter

in the blue sky few clouds and those thin
the cold air shapes our coats into small flags
no soaring spirit on this bright day it sags
even as the billows make us seem to win
against the force that pushes us within
our small limits instead like empty bags
we flutter on the streets like wornout rags
in cheerful breeze we've taken it on the chin
now here's another world beyond the gate
grim redbrick academic not-quite-goth
it has all the power and presence that it needs
a testament to its good luck and fate
there's no need here for some gaudy cloth
instead there's energy bound in the seeds

up too early

numbers are meaningless heat and cold
are what we feel and the wind's touch
be it harsh or soft can say quite as much
now what the stolid thermometer told
was that those who ventured out were bold
on this coldest of days yet as was known such
were the requirements that mad us clutch
our coats and run and feel our bodies old
this seems a mistake here where winter's mild
and january began with unseasonable spring
but now it ends somewhere below the norm
this should remind us that nature is wild
with energy her veins and vessels sing
and never fixed or steady is her form

Mervyn & Gertrud

Mervyn Morris and Gertrud Aub-Buscher

where journeys end

each journey has its stages first the plains
a little bland perhaps but still secure
certain of their ways but not cocksure
their songs are steady soft are the refrains
and then the mountains mothers of the rains
in sunlight their mass appears to reassure
but winter comes and away goes their lure
and you wonder what became of all your brains
now here's a lake with waters broad and deep
fed by sweet rivers and with outlet clear
a place where all turmoils and conflicts cease
away from both the flat and stony steep
to those who know its beauty very dear
the site at last of joy and calm and peace

a winter night

when the day comes will i know where to go
or will i be as lost as when night fell
it's bloody hard at this late hour to tell
and everything now seems to move so slow
as if the night were waiting for a blow
to wake it or to send it straight to hell
the punishment due to all those who rebel
against the will of them that do not know
masters of what fate or what will tempt
to act and not to wait for the event
those who though pliant will not just obey
will not decide to provoke or to pre-empt
instead will force the camel from the tent
and demand that fools just get out of the way

tropical wave

when it has ended and the ground's still wet
you come out of the house and look around
the air is fresh the earth green with regret

for three whole days of worry and of fret
you've wondered at what would at last be found
when it has ended and the ground's still wet

those who know immoderation's a real threat
are heartened that we're all still safe and sound
the air is fresh the earth green with regret

the order of things seemed confusing and upset
but now with sunshine all's ready to rebound
when it has ended and the ground's still wet

it's easy in this peaceful moment to forget
the stillness has a meaning more profound
the air is fresh the earth green with regret

there's lots of work to do that's a safe bet
now that it's clear the world has not been drowned
the air is fresh the earth green with regret
when it has ended and the ground's still wet

sunny interlude

silent choir of vultures on the church roof
watching at noon as i walk down the drive
they cast a pall of fear though i'm alive
their gaze is bitter it demands real proof
i'm not the next meal passing on the hoof
under that stare i falter still i will deprive
these carrion fowl of satisfaction i'll survive
their frightening eyes from them i am aloof
under the mango tree's shade i pause and sigh
not simply in relief but with a kind of fear
that there's a message in these watching birds
but i'm no little boy there's no reason to cry
and on my face is sweat but not a tear
it takes a long time to find the right words

this shall suffice

in time we'll know which steps we should retrace
and which were false and led us into pain
small are our hearts yet infinite as space

we stand accused of lacking sense of place
our lives are not lived seeking greater gain
in time we'll know which steps we should retrace

no power above can lend us greater grace
that nature gives us that should now be plain
small are our hearts yet infinite as space

this is our journey we alone can set the pace
we've been fooled once but won't be fooled again
in time we'll know which steps we should retrace

distant be night only then shall we unlace
both boots and souls with relief after strain
small are our hearts yet infinite as space

there is a knowledge hidden behind each face
it cannot be hidden no matter how much we feign
in time we'll know which steps we should retrace
small are our hearts yet infinite as space

up pearl lagoon

with no sense of illusion or of fear
the boat goes out onto the quiet bay
this is the oddest journey of the year
an expedition that in just one day
will take us all along this waterway
to a kind of place i'd known in the far past
upon our heads the rain and thunder play
this is a true adventure at long last

there's plastic tarp in plenty and to spare
to shield us from the rain and from the spray
it's far too hot right now to think of fear
on this swift launch we don't long want to stay
above the water we note the bright ray
the boatman feels the need to be quite fast
the sun comes out we stop and talk and sway
this is a true adventure at long last

we've come so far with caution and with care
what do we do but what we ought and may
choose from our time in the warm sun and air
above the shore we see each village lay
in proper place we've come the rightful way
the sun on the water now has a pleasant cast
i'm here to work though not to laugh and play
this is a true adventure at long last

prince as you these few chosen words must weigh
in proper balance as you think and stare
at this small record consider it in this way
this is a true adventure at long last

allamandas

the scent of allamandas takes me back
the distance and the places vanish quite
it's the sweet odour that hangs in night
in a garden beside the mountain track
the earth seems to open a wide crack
appears in the ground it's time for flight
return to normal nothing but a slight
slip back in time there's naught slack
about the mind and heart that seek
in deepest memory to find the better self
and in that recollection to define
what makes us strong and leaves us weak
what we should have put back on the shelf
and what in our own psyches to refine

walking to work

the darkened towers above the well-lit street
loom in full silence where once there was life
the street is usually quiet at this hour never rife
with movement purpose only my heavy feet
and the wheels of my bag as we move not fleet
but steady on the way the light is sharp as knife
on bleary eyes as i pass by no fear of any strife
at least at this odd hour never a one i meet
in these long streets at this the changing hour
between the night and day only the working men
and women will be out not too long the walk
to reach my office still each empty idle tower
within this moment each their fear must pen
inside their hearts above flies last nighthawk

looking back at the city

it seems so strange to see the buildings lit
almost empty streets once in a while a car
passing my any movement might just mar
the perfection of the time all things must fit
the shape of the world but also must commit
themselves to its harsh life nothing too far
beyond the normal but yet within the bar
of all existence inasmuch as they have wit
voices that tell us there's a stranger way
but one with higher hope they may deceive
or they may not that thing we cannot know
for the time being we have our common day
and all the things we get or may believe
the task is simple get on which the show

the final curve

so long the walk and in the end dog-tired
i come over the last pass and the distant sea
comes into view at last you would agree
that as the sun sets and the water fired
purple and red and gold properly attired
for a long night and those things that must be
when sun and water i'll no longer see
but further commentary isn't now required
in truth i just have one more hill to climb
the view is better what seem scattered stars
over all the lowland but i will not test
my vision further this is a peaceful time
i know the daylight will show blemishes scars
and other evils but now it's time to rest

red sky in the morning

which way the roads turn is hard to know
the hill seems far away then not so far
change direction slightly and things jar
still the pace of life is steady and slow
as people wait in fear the hammerblow
of storm that will so many good deeds mar
the calm still moment seems just so bizarre
what people really feel they will not show
the news is good no storm just pelting rain
roads turn to rivers and some trees will fall
but nothing like the breeze in fullest wrath
what fills the hopeful and expectant brain
is gladness that no bereft ones will bawl
this time the hurricane's taken another path

at piarco it was raining

you look down from the plane at the sight
familiar from the map of the country below
across the island there's a steady glow
of house and street lamps banishers of night
you're headed south the last stage of the flight
minute after minute the time seems to flow
as you move towards a place you do not know
in hope of something fresh a new insight
not given to other travellers ahead more lights
signal the journey's end the new found place
where answers may be given and things learned
you wonder now what demons and what sprites
will rear up suddenly looking in your face
and asking whether your soul has been burned

daring to eat a peach

what choices we have aren't ever really free
we're born into places languages broad themes
we're faced with cultural givens shared memes
the mass of leaves is really a great tree
its roots spread out from ocean unto sea
the bird that in its upper branches screams
is our projection comes from darkest dreams
its only vocables those that we decree
through bast and bark and branches we connect
each to the other but in modes allowed
by life and history each little thing we say
comes from our past in modes we cannot reject
each of us though single is a mighty crowd
and in our growth we share a common way

looking at malvern mountain

the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill
its colours make it stand out from the green
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

the road is carved by act of human will
it's level length is very easily seen
the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill

in the mountain valley all is calm and still
a few flowers in hedges are allowed to preen
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

the birds that cry their messages are shrill
the air around us is both clear and clean
the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill

i hurry over the pathway trying not to spill
my schoolbag and make a stupid scene
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

with miles to go there is no time to kill
from start to finish there's no pause between
the trumpet tree is flaming on the hill
i follow the road homeward with no thrill

southward at sunset

eight miles away the broad and open sea
beyond the earth's curve lies the spanish main
eyes cannot see it no matter how they strain
towards that south no birds appear to flee
there's not much difference except for degree
as much of sunshine but a different pain
the sunset on the water a huge bloodstain
so many came in chains so few arrived here free
down on the beaches there's a different life
the catch brought in and fried on friendly fires
beer and fried dumplings added to the feast
on land or water always a mode of strife
between tellers of true tales and plain liars
somewhere there roams a contemplative beast

more than four seasons

there are such things as tropical seasons driven by the sun
not just the wet and dry but the seasons of crops and fruit
seasons marked by different tastes with colours that suit
the times and flavours and flowers that are never done
from blowing on the shrubs and trees and every one
gives voice with odours that are strong and loud if mute
the scents and tastes fill the memory with an acute
sense of time and loss and distances that have been crossed
by each of us who can recall those works and days
when ships sailed slowly on the distant sunset seas
not for nothing are there words and segments tossed
into the recollection as into the bowl the many ways
that in the evening the sweet tang of the juices would please

the prosper road

the tree seems like a giant stag above the pass
the road jogs up and down mostly southwest
the sun will be down before I reach the crest
and take the downhill turn the wind bends grass
on the slopes below the sky seems almost glass
so clear the dying light the clouds are dressed
in their finest colours almost they suggest
a heaven of joy beyond their ethereal mass
and then velvet sky and the small house lights
the road is rocky and its gleaming white trail
is almost innocent of trucks or vans or cars
only the locals get to note these sights
onward i go as sun's last glimmers fail
and looking upward watch the wheeling stars

taking a message

you go down the mountain to mountainside
the road is wet the clouds promise more rain
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

the road's a bridle path a fool would ride
a horse or donkey from the hills to plain
you go down the mountain to mountainside

on the slick clay you fear each step to slide
the gully yawns below with death and pain
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

at mountain's foot almost you seem to glide
but here there is a different kind of strain
you go down the mountain to mountainside

on flatter ground you go with swifter stride
the farmer in the field is planting grain
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

the paved road when you reach it seems so wide
the blood is singing along every vein
you go down the mountain to mountainside
each step downhill's a matter of some pride

stanmore hill

i sit upon the drystone pasture wall
to watch the puffy clouds hurrying by
and answer yes or answer not at all

a common scene it never seems to pall
above my head the rushing swallows fly
i sit upon the drystone pasture wall

in middle distance i hear voices call
in joy or pain i cannot tell the cry
and answer yes or answer not at all

down the sky's slope the sun begins to fall
its orb will soon come level with my eye
i sit upon the drystone pasture wall

upon the rocks lizards and insects crawl
their chances in the afternoon to try
and answer yes or answer not at all

in the mind's eye it all seems rather small
the tale that's told is truth it is no lie
i sit upon the drystone pasture wall
and answer yes or answer not at all

absence of ease

with fragments of thought congealing in my head
i worry about the dry scratching in my throat
i'm all covered up indeed i might just add a coat
i feel i'm caught in an aura of deepest purest dread
my mind wanders in and out i cannot catch the thread
of thought my head seems almost to be afloat
yet still attached my wit's worth much less than a groat
i wonder where the pain and fear will spread
not to be sure tonight is being three times afraid
of what i'll learn tomorrow of which hard matters true
i'll have to deal with now it's not a simple deal
to be patient to wait to learn which bloodthirsty blade
has struck me now i wonder oddly at its hue
and what has chosen us this week to be its meal

Big infant whines

I'm all grown up, and just to prove the fact
I'll tell on you, I'll tell on you to Dad!
I'm sure that'll make you sorry, just a tad,
but I'm not big on common sense or tact.
I know I'm always right, I've got the exact
answer every time, and how that makes you mad!
I'm telling father on you, just be glad
he's not in the kind of mood to have you racked.
I'm all grown up, I'm a real bitch and all,
I've got my work published in a real magazine,
I know I'm better, I've got the big award
given out by the truckloads, I am your downfall.
I'm the real thing, you're faker than margarine,
I'll annoy you and annoy you till I get bored.

no finer things

the little pains add up to something large
the little warmth seems quickly to escape
the message has run out the little tape
the body does not move without a charge
uncertain you stand wobbling at the marge
of this slow river wondering at each shape
in middle distance your senses almost scrape
to tell the outline of some ship or barge
not through this fog but in the sharpest light
the rowers bring the longboat in to land
to claim the place its deepest secrets to reveal
this is the means by with we show our might
you wonder blinking on that golden strand
what signals the days coming would unreel

the unifying narrative

formed out of nothing thoughts move with grace
from flash to finish gleaming on the page
we can't map out each intervening stage
our minds contain within them infinite space
bound in such a tight shell held closely in place
by need to furnish with each clear image
its proper caption and though you earn no wage
each one's a certain winner in the human race
the stories that we tell come from somewhere
deep in the past distant in space and time
but closer than a touch upon the skin
each one contains a bit of hope or fear
originating in some slick primæval slime
and in their grip all people remain kin

only spectators

it doesn't matter who you are or what you wear
when you come to the testing day and hour
you've got to use the utmost of your power
and take the chances others would not dare
before you cry that you'd never want to care
for such a useless such a complete shower
of folk who wouldn't in the proper moment flower
and if there's triumph have no right to share
marginal people who in more stringent times
would not have permit even from far to gaze
at what was far beyond their humble glance
who should be made to suffer for their crimes
to stay on the fringes even on the best of days
and never be allowed the smallest chance

Queering the pitch

I'll make some money "publishing" bad art,
capitalise on all that vanity and pride,
take simple folks and their cash for a ride,
and make believe I really give a fart
for all they say, pretend I have a heart
that's not as dead and wizened as my hide.
If I can do this and simultaneous deride
the carping critics I'll have done my part
to make the world a danker, nastier place
where vultures like myself can find weak prey
and curse the ones who try to make us go.
I'm a real expert, for if you seek to trace
my achievements all disappears into the grey
of winter, my job, indeed's, to snow.

there was the word

justice is the child of love and rage
the ferment of truth unanticipated
with magical elements is is baited
to capture critics at the proper stage
perjury doesn't provide a living wage
but with its own anger is well-freighted
to give to each the proper fated
key that unlocks each golden cage
where sortilege provides a single clue
to find the secret hidden in the maze
science must fall in worship at the feet
of magecraft must give it such due
as would the wielder of the razor craze
when clarity comes it is never fleet

Esbozo de un soneto

Yo, cuando escribo, me situo en el templo
de las nueve diosas del monte de Apolón,
aúnque sé que ese deidad, siendo bribón,
no nos dará ningun tipo de buen ejemplo.
Estando en mi despacho, pienso, contemplo
lo que es poema, y lo que es sermón;
en mi mente reviso, considero la razón
al centro de la cosa, evaluo el contraejemplo.
Nunca esperé que escribir en castellano
me sería tan fácil y tan grato; a mi parecer
la combinación de rimas es aún mas rica
que en mi propia idioma, vienen a mi mano
con tanta rapidez, la grande y la chica,
mas como un juego que como modo de hacer.

a slim thread

with time and hope behind us there's a chance
that as the tired red dragon slowly flies
back to his nesting ground from fields of france
there'll be an alert one below who spies
a single weakness and with focused eyes
will fire the bolt to bring the damned beast down
taking sure aim and to the worm's surprise
a single shot will liberate the town

some days we cannot hope soon to advance
against the surging tide of thrills and lies
the whole relation seems a sort of dance
but from deep cover the stolid watcher cries
the beast is coming do not now despise
the arts of camouflage your hopes to crown
bring down the horror that rules from the skies
a single shot will liberate the town

it's easy once the battle's done to prance
and claim the leadership with kinship's ties
but if you haven't taken the proper stance
your chance at kingship withers fast and dies
rather you've got the golden orb to prise
from those who full of anger talk you down
they do not guess they cannot yet surmise
a single shot will liberate the town

prince as you muster your eager allies
reflect your smile may yet turn to a frown
the ship of state may at one stroke capsize
a single shot will liberate the town

and yet you care

you wonder if they've heard a word you've said
the pressure is the greatest when you teach
and hope that somehow a ray of light will reach
the vacant confines of each well-coiffed head
they look on blankly your heart fills up with dread
you wonder what it's like down at the beach
or if what seems coherent thought and speech
has turned into complete nonsense instead
of inspiring thought and after thoughtful acts
producing visions of a joyous world
or getting them at the very least to think
they don't want concepts just separate facts
their minds remain tight folded and tight curled
around an empty core you want a drink

In praise of a bookbinding

To say that your work's elegant, Abi, is just wrong,
the language does not have the word for such a treat,
the beauty of the style, and the simple, neat,
decoration that seems to be a visual song;
the form you choose to comment is not long
but neither is it decadent, foppish, nor effete,
it's a poem in itself, plain, simple and complete;
it is as clear as water, and far more strong
than any other message in the things it says
to us and to its buyer, you've found a simple means
of giving honour to an absent friend.
I mean these things, as Jonson said, to thy praise;
others may require more complex, more elaborate scenes,
but in this piece your art has found its end.

tour of duty

not enough pain to stop the work
enough for anger and jangled nerve
i'm lacking energy spirit even verve
and right now feel i'm a bit of a berk
but tired or not i'm not allowed to shirk
i've got to work i've got to go and serve
from my course i cannot ever swerve
around me settles gloomy night and mirk
not here the triumph or the sad collapse
no eager trumpets announcing doom
instead the minutes ticking one by one
i don't expect to fall or to relapse
the silence is not quite that of the tomb
i'm here until the hour then i'm done

in preparation again

in front of me the rising empty rows
chairs all in place the hemicycle looks
actively waiting like libraries for books
the time between classes quickly goes
and nothing of significance yet shows
now i weigh words and bait my hooks
though i will catch nor fish nor crooks
they'll all look up innocent as does
the time to think time to get in place
the words and images is here and now
something is magic in an empty room
what comes hereafter i know how to trace
the meaning of the purpose and the vow
knowledge i hope will come into full bloom

horrible monday

a raw wet morning's not the best of starts
everything's late and every nerve is shot
a kind of desperation is our collective lot
each of us seems mired in our old parts
the raindrops sting like cold bitter darts
what we had of good purpose is forgot
instead we wonder if we've lost the plot
gloom's the liquid pumping in our hearts
this cannot last the sun must soon return
the warmth that animates our feet and bones
must fill each heart with animating light
for kinder days and softer times we yearn
keeping our feet in place on the slick stones
morning is dark but evening will be bright

for the republic

what we must do is act with due measure
taking account of needs and of desires
restraint must be applied to bank the fires
and duty counts far more than mere pleasure
work's the obligation and the reward leisure
to greater service each citizen aspires
and seeks the civic palm ere he retires
all goes at last into the collective treasure
not for the first time is our expectation
that voice and vote must act with joint force
to build a symbol in our public spaces
the heart and core of this civilised nation
a common strength that comes from sharing course
that knows its origins and keeps the traces

universal signal

what makes all places look alike is rain
tropical or temperate or normally cold
north south east west new world or old
the steady fall of drops makes all plain
dulls sound makes all things dark by main
force of steady falling everything's on hold
we can't express a process to unfold
the world is covered by a steady stain
after sunset things are much the same
the interruption of a car's headlights
could be anywhere the dank odour
is universal all seems weak and tame
humanity is linked by such damp nights
the cryptogram does not need a decoder

migraine

in memory things always have a glow
but at the time it certainly wasn't there
you get a sense of a long ebb and flow
that softens recall of the stifling air
and all the pain and every little care
that was confronted yet we have to see
we have arrived because we chose to dare
on the horizon stands a giant tree

the pain came on just like a heavy blow
with miles to walk and little day to spare
i held my head down and my heart was low
on endless road i walked towards the glare
of sunset little beast eyes on all sides stare
from the sharp agony i know i can't flee
i'm walking wakeful with my own nightmare
on the horizon stands a giant tree

all is in order i've been at pains to stow
all that i need but it seems just so unfair
the headache seems intended now to show
that i must endure that i've got to bear
the stabbing pain until i want to tear
half my head off i know that cannot be
this is exclusive this i will not share
on the horizon stands a giant tree

prince you've got carriages and carts to spare
the sufferings of your subjects here you see
we've heard so often that you really care
on the horizon stands a giant tree

between rainfalls

pallor of sky the sign of coming rain
a grey day for all of us yet some relief
will come nature's the fairest thief
of time and effort yet all ends in pain
that was the message we heard it plain
there's no refuge in any faith or belief
we face the monster it consumes our grief
and then returns it to us once again
the sun's up there we know that as a fact
but here and now the weight of dulling light
makes it remote yet we are not afraid
of what will come we have yet some tact
to keep our minds off any coming fright
we earn our wages and we will be paid

fourth wall

the audience sits up the play will start
we'll see the actors take up their pretense
we sit forward now all emotions intense
what's told is true of every normal heart
each action each character's own part
seems in its doing both small and immense
the sound and sight batter upon the sense
for we've been incorporated in the art
laughter and tears and yet we have no link
to these strange people out upon the stage
we find release and yet we were not tied
we've come for ease but find we have to think
to draw in all the humour and all the rage
unmoving we're exhausted from the ride

the other world

who can tell what rivers end in a hidden sea
with waves of which no legend's ever spoken
on unsung shore's eternally they've broken
to which the ghosts and fairies always flee
on some low coastal hill an ancient great tree
stands almost silent a barely-rustling token
long-standing keeper of a place unwoken
and servant to a barely-heard decree
of gods unmentioned and of powers unknown
the place is kept especial and apart
no ship of men or women rides those waves
no human skin has felt the wind that's blown
over those waters and no human heart
will beat in concord with those unfading staves

murphy's law

beyond all limits you have strained your nerves
there's nothing for it but to get things done
you've told the stories got the concepts spun
avoided all detours and needless swerves
your critics have got what a bastard deserves
it's the key moment you're under the gun
this is the ultimate test the true first run
you're going to unleash all of your reserves
but now the sky's gone cloudy grey and black
the air's gone cold and everywhere is gloom
what could have gone awry at this late hour
it's almost as if you've come under attack
your triumph turned into an early tomb
and all that's sweet has turned nasty and sour