no magic in the year

this is the year when each week brings more pain

we dread to hear the news since it must shock

there's death instead of healing in the rain

we heard your cry and knew it was in vain

no one would come not even to take stock

this is the year when each week brings more pain

there is no balance there's no even strain

the boat will sink after it leaves the dock

there's death instead of healing in the rain

we see the message and it is quite plain

the fates have gathered and they seem to mock

this is the year when each week brings more pain

the victim's due is to be killed again

at a set time as measured by the clock

there's death instead of healing in the rain

and never shelter that we could attain

since every hope we have turns out a crock

this is the year when each week brings more pain

there's death instead of healing in the rain

the ravens call

after the rain i hear the ravens call

one sits a moment on the highest crown

of autumn hemlock then it wings on down

into the valley bringing on the fall

of hanging drops the evergreens are tall

in pale sunlight the day chooses to frown

upon my actions leaves are turning brown

on the wet lawn this cycle fulfills it all

inside the cat comes up to sniff my feet

fearful of noises from the great outside

but still desiring to know what is there

the sounds and silences of our small street

muffled so easily when we are inside

but sharp and carrying in the open air

out of the cloud

out of the cloud one moment of calm rain

and silver light can overwhelm the sense

we're left with life the journey may commence

our path is known our purpose now made plain

even to fools nothing left to detain

the cautious watcher there's no great defence

we have to make our task is not intense

all is gone past that we have to attain

so now the summing up the verdict clear

on who the losers were and what they lost

paid for in full without a single word

by those who smiled and laughed in the free air

enduring all and knowing what it cost

but still rejoicing in the free absurd

breakdown

steam on the mountain road just after dark

we've brought our geyser with us this one time

and laughter in the moment seems a crime

which choice is easy though the answer's stark

you have to wait until the proper bark

get back inside and get back on the climb

when you get home you will wash off the grime

and wonder why the effort left no mark

we pass those places where the words of craft

are spoken gently where old wisdom sits

and are not moved we can no longer stay

safe in our skins to do that now is daft

instead we joke and battle with our wits

knowing that others follow in our way

than this gift

nothing we have is greater than this gift

of light in motion on the eastern wall

midafternoon the moments seem to crawl

the music flows and mind appears to drift

from work to sleep always an easy shift

you're tired and your thought's not on the ball

there is no duty and no one will call

no need for passion nor any for thrift

listen the song begins and it is clear

coming a distance and gentle in tone

so many voices urging you to rest

with magic now upon the summer air

announcing that you will not be alone

giving the day that extra bit of zest

on a cool morning

on a cool morning we may see the dew

settled on grass as butterflies flit by

in mild september still the world is new

 

seasons must change and time will have her due

others will have their honest reasons why

on a cool morning we may see the dew

 

through the back window this calm sunday view

of houses road and the late summer sky

in mild september still the world is new

 

when we are happy and our pains are few

the task today is to rejoice not cry

on a cool morning we may see the dew

 

before it burns off while the sky's still blue

this moment fits so neatly in the eye

in mild september still the world is new

 

we taste once more the sweetness of the brew

knowing the truths that life may yet supply

on a cool morning we may see the dew

in mild september still the world is new

backyard

september and the butterflies still flit

from bloom to bloom trees manage still to sway

in gentle time in nature's smoothest play

while i am still alive to smile at it

my heart and mind have found the truest grit

is not in words nor in what good folk say

but in the patterns of the everyday

in ready laughter and in honest wit

there are no angels waiting for my soul

nor gods in the beyond with secrets grand

ready to weigh my spirit for its worth

i take this journey for a single whole

the good i do must come from a kind hand

and honest tears are good with honest mirth

now back home

there's little room for laughter nor for wit

in a beige room with a good downtown view

learning that not all good comes with the new

and breathing in the scents of bile and shit

you learn then all the signals of hard grit

but night and day someone must turn the screw

the pain will come as much as you are due

and you must sleep now for a little bit

love is sustained upon a sea of tears

though brotherhood itself may seem to fail

in curtest questions still you can draw breath

surprise yourself that you withstood your fears

and are arrived to laugh about this tale

since by a hair you walked away from death

a ballad for august morning

i bow to those who went before

bearing the hoe and long cane-bill

who wept and worked at others' will

till august eighteen-thirty-four

 

we make our choices know the score

believe we act with style and skill

but every option good or ill

begins in eighteen-thirty-four

 

the ships that took them to that shore

in stink of vomit shit and swill

rivers of ink and blood to spill

till august eighteen-thirty-four

 

we cannot tell how much they bore

which ones resisted which stood still

and fed the canes into the mill

till august eighteen-thirty-four

 

our duty now is not adore

but spread the word from plain and hill

that we bear their remembrance still

since august eighteen-thirty-four

 

to bow to those who went before

bearing the hoe and long cane-bill

who wept and worked at others' will

till august eighteen-thirty-four

herders

mischief is made by those who hate all peace

and want us all within hard walls and gates

with loudest words and after harsh debates

they'll order silence and demand we cease

turbulent thoughts that challenge their caprice

command each soul into narrow estates

and keep each heart distinct from its best mates

just so that love and light may both decrease

they call it summer when they see it snow

mistake the cold for some redeeming balm

and bid us all accept the freezing rain

out of the north claiming they see it glow

with ready warmth they tell us all is calm

that all is gentle that we're past all pain

first directions

who saw the flame and saw us put it out

was not the first but fell soon into line

marching in order that was the design

both for the wayward and the most devout

seemingly magic but we dare to pout

noting this sourness far from the divine

where modern forces just cannot combine

and older strength no longer is so stout

assert what's true in spite of all this heat

it will not matter no one will be told

the proper story what is is to fail

in our sad hour this token of defeat

is valued more than coin of hoarded gold

while honesty remains so long on sale

in no great haste

in no great haste to change the solemn art

that deals with those who cannot render ease

in modern terms we make a florid start

presenting our regards upon our knees

as if our thoughts were villain amputees

regarding with some horror how the strain

of vision reaching through this veil of rain

has no effect on motion nor on rate

all in the end must seep into the brain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

both rich and poor rub shoulders in the mart

while finding nothing that could truly please

an honest mind or else a yearning heart

since all the market has is hopping fleas

and some lost objects baking in the breeze

there's not a single value to retain

and all our hope might just go down the drain

as laughing gargoyles seem to contemplate

you cannot speak except now to complain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

no one today would ever give a fart

for decent laws or honest high decrees

the vultures wait until the wolves depart

then each devours the carrion that it sees

there's no means left the monster to appease

just throw another turd upon the wain

since we have read the signal very plain

the door is shut and rescue's come too late

all that is left is one more ugly stain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

prince as you look out from the morning train

you'll see the same old shadow once again

don't think of it as duty nor as fate

that's just a path that leads you to more pain

where only losers claim to lead the state

moonset

go up the rise and look down on the sea

ten miles away the moon is setting now

this is a moment which will long allow

warm recollection both of bird and tree

there's nothing here right now would disagree

that time is perfect but we can't endow

life and eternity instead the plough

pushes it under where we cannot see

lost to us all and so left far behind

are all those things only half understood

but not then wanted since the childish voice

is not the speaker for the full-grown mind

nor can we tell yet what is truly good

when we are forced to make a final choice

poui

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

out of a legend that we do not know

this warm reminder with its pallid glow

 

absent all anger absent too all glee

for a short season we absorb the show

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

 

so magic fills the air and what we see

is all the ground covered in golden snow

a lovely moment if we let it be

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

past fairyland

no mystery nor reason for the day

to start so simply since the bright alarm

brought us to wakefulness with simple charm

while this last warden had now news to say

but that there were some causes for delay

and none for haste but we are past all harm

of foolish words nor may the time disarm

our urgent thoughts we must be on our way

onward to where the final tolling bell

cannot be heard and then so far beyond

that on our senses we cannot depend

who will not know if any live to tell

the meaning and the substance of our bond

or who will care that any reach the end

now so forgotten

a moment's vision just a little nudge

of seeing what the normal eye can't see

in moving time just so we might agree

on one fast rule but no you will not budge

from that position nor will you begrudge

what we assume is given us for free

to stay or go just so each has to be

the honest broker and the silent judge

this course of pain is now so well begun

you take the measure and devise a trap

knowing that soon the true moment will come

since each desire has in us one swift run

a journey noted well upon the map

and valued now at a gigantic sum