The totter just before the final spin

 Whenever choices have become real slight

between the tiger, and the pretty dame,

it’s ending, not beginning, of the game,

and every option leads out of the light.

The answer cannot be simple or right,

since both our choices lead us into shame;

instead our hope is only in the flame,

our fraying guide across the sleepless night

possessing power far greater than plain force,

whose firm decisions bring us to the stark

point of descrying ending of all wars.

It’s far beyond correction of the course,

it’s shattering of the all but final mark,

and viewing, with Dante, the sharp, clear, night stars.

Between the viper and the fly

 Those folk who know the answer’s never right 

have just begun to master the bright flame,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light.

It’s not that they’re trapped in some dreadful plight,

nor that the force that binds them is mere shame, 

those folk who know the answer’s never right 

are not the ones who, gentle and polite,

have found the beast, and given it a name,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light.

If we track brilliance through darkest night,

we’ll find a clue to some astounding game 

those folk who know the answer’s never right 

taught their successors, who, in open flight,

refused to allocate some form of blame,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light 

and have not yet devised the proper rite

yet keep apart the wildlings and the tame,

those folk who know the answer’s never right,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light 

have neither vision, nor abnormal sight.

They have, instead, a proper sense of shame,

and guilt that no true kindness can make right.

There is no kindly answer to requite

the ones whose honor we cannot proclaim,

with neither vision, nor abnormal sight,

can tell apart clear day and starless night.

It’s not because they understand the game;

there is no kindly answer to requite

either hard insult, or more modest slight,

with massive weight of honest fear or shame,

with neither vision, nor abnormal sight,

the fearful power of one simple insight:

That those who cannot raise a private 

flame,

with neither vision, nor abnormal sight,

there is no kindly answer to requite.

No ballad-lord

The storm begins with the swift-rising Sun

chasing the fast-descending globe of Moon.

Ahead of us, the fiery boars will run

driven, by hunt or hunter, noon to noon,

and the wild cattle sing their own, old, tune.

The hungry vultures have their own refrain:

You have to understand it fast and soon,

and learn all secrets of the coming pain.

Who comes with shadow before time is done 

is master all at once of hawk and loon,

and child of those who marvel at the Sun

but cannot realize that he comes soon.

Faster and faster, in no awkward tune,

but silently, yet in a manner plain

of sequences that free us far too soon,

to learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Those birds that we consume by pound or ton,

forgetting every sweetness of their croon,

are nothing to confront arrogant gun.

But, behind trees, as noble as our Sun,

sounding towards us as curlew or loon,

at end of day, arrive here much too soon, 

as in hard meter, or a solemn tune;

still tell our story in a language plain,

at sunrise, evening, or at highest noon,

yet learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Lady or Mistress, pray grant us this boon:

Ignore our foes, but still allow the tune.

Teach us to hold the line, but not to strain,

award us, rather, with a sweeter croon;

grant us the justice, but not the buffoon,

and learn the secrets of the coming pain.

Go, soak your head

 The bishop said to the old king

“Your odor is like rotten string,

You need, it’s so very plain,

Two hours in the soaking rain,

and a gigantic bee sting.”

If you only knew

 You’re sitting there, listening to the sound 

of distant pianos seeking to reach

beyond the surface of a higher ground,

while quiet waves roll steady on the beach.

What music you should hear this afternoon

is none that I could play, but then I can’t

manage to achieve one useful tune,

though still am able to produce a rant.

Your voice is silent, and I am not sure 

it needs to be accompanied by mine,

which is, alas, not delicate or pure;

less than a song, but certainly a whine.

I ache to hear, I wish to dance and play 

on this late evening at the end of May.

Done, done, done

 In the beginning, only dark and still,

for light, you know, will never reach on time

the hidden secrets of unvarnished crime;

it barely understands plain human will.

No brilliant moment to display our skill,

but simple fragments in the smelly slime 

hardly worth least effort, nor even rhyme;

nothing that matters when the day’s gone ill.

Perhaps we needed to announce the Sun,

but never caught the urgency of rain

striking upon the window of the dawn,

hearing the loud cry of the morning gun

with all its echoes of departing pain

as the slow breezes whisk away the corn.

Days left

 Where it began no one could ever tell,

the sky is clear, and every cloud is gone,

leaving behind the clarity of Sun

with shrinking echo of alarum bell;

we see, while trembling, the day goes not well

but not as sadly as when it is done.

The suffering, it seems, is half the fun,

for every road delivers straight to Hell.

As up in Heaven, so it is downstairs,

though noise is always greater at the base;

for those above silence is never late,

but the Lord Bones will neither take on airs,

nor accept quietly time to erase 

what we know ever will be our foul fate.

The ride is approximately at its end

 How do you get out of a subtle trap?

The normal rules have never once applied 

to anyone, except the dumbest sap

who has no choice but to stay on the ride.

Those who object are actually fools,

with sluggish minds, lacking the mental tools.

Then there’s the pain, the force you can’t escape 

unless upon the  last long downhill road,

the one you exit with your mouth agape. 

The one where everybody knows the code.

There’s no evading of the ultimate,

the day has faded , and it is now late.

No matter how much you feel that you’re still strong 

your body demonstrates with all the pain 

your body held in silence for so long

you had forgotten, until the last strain;

and then you that each breath is the last:

Your body is decaying much too fast.

The message has arrived, and it is clear:

All that is left you is a little air.

They are not the same sort of thing

I’ve learnt so much at the edge of sleep,

the mind half-aware, half listening close, 

but still connected, as you might suppose,

to something that consciousness must keep,

a matter that my mind desires to keep,

perhaps a memory of tree or rose,

or a sad fact that’s been struck on the nose,

important but not obviously deep.

The edge of death is quite another thing,

hallucination of dull yellow light 

illuminating something that’s not there.

The vision is not something I could bring 

within a fellow human’s mental sight,

only a place substantial as air.

Missing the dinner party

To read texts by Lenin and Marx

will always produce many sparks,

but we’ll be caught 

in some difficult thought

by what we began just for larks.

There is no ready answer within reach

 When there are many meanings to one word,

and many synonyms across the Earth 

we know that there will never be a dearth 

of concepts we believe that we have heard,

This is, however, not much more than merde,

only another error brought to birth

of no more value than a little mirth,

at the same moment funny and absurd.

We find ourselves in no safe place to learn

some part of verity that we may hold

to keep us walking on the safest way,

ensuring that there is a good to gain.

Yet we can’t understand what we’ve been told,

nor comprehend what the prophets say.

The sailor’s return

I begged from the king a ticket of leave.

to see for a while the one whom I love,

so long without her made both of us grieve. 

His Majesty laughed, and gave me the glove.

I went to the count, and asked for the same,

reminding my lord how I’d brought him gain.

He glared at me, saying I had no shame 

but simply desired to avoid more pain.

I stole a small boat, and began to row,

begging all forces to make my arms strong,

wafting me easily on the sea’s flow,

and bring us together swiftly as song.

Back to her arms, swearing never to part,

and holding her close to my aching heart.

Cantiga de amigo

O wildest of seas, beside which I wait,

lead my beloved in haste to my side.

Keep him away from danger and harsh fate,

and return him to me in honor and pride.

O wildest of seas, protect his small ship,

 and bear him to this haven swift and soon;

protect his feet, and do not let them slip,

but bring him home under a golden moon.

O wildest of seas, let us both rejoice 

to see the one soul to whom we belong.

Let him be joyful at hearing my voice,

bring him to land soon, both healthy and strong.

O wildest of seas, may you never fail 

to bring him back home past each storm and gale.

No swifter victory has been obtained

These generals are cowards to the core,

although so pretty in their parade kit

they lack the basic skill of waging war.

Not one of them can recall the least bit 

of what they learnt of tactics and command,

and action fills their uniforms with shit.

You will not see them in hard battle stand,

but scream at sight of soldiers, and then run,

while the opponent laughs and thinks it grand

to see them flee before they’ve fired a  gun.

When war’s this easy there’s no need to fight,

just point your weapons, and enjoy the fun.

You need no tactics, your risks are so slight 

when they see you they piss their pants in fear,

and, lacking orders, turn their heels in flight.

This enemy would never think to dare

advance to worry a superior force,

possessing knowledge that they quake in fear.

Thus this encounter follows no hard course,

and is so easy, far beyond belief, 

that they’d capitulate to a dead horse.

One side, we know, will never come to grief

but take its victory with a broad smile.

The artillery laughs out in relief, 

and infantry is happy for this while.

The field commander tells his men to charge.

The running enemy can’t make a mile

before they halt, and cease to be at large.

One more such battle and the war is won;

there’s happy laughter from private and sarge,

who stand amazed how easy it was done,

and seeing swiftly they’ll obtain the win:

A war without a skirmish, that’s straight fun.

No bullet will, in anger, touch a skin,

the chaplain chants a hymn of praise to Mars,

with on his face a wide and joyous grin,

since actual conflict was not in the stars.

At such a speed as never seen before;

not for a moment in all other wars 

had any victory been obtained so fast,

that this false battle, at once first and best,

would be both easiest, and be the last.

This was the only military test,

it was so simple they could not believe 

grown men could flee with such appalling zest,

at such a pace that it could not deceive,

even the most suspicious of all men,

in gratitude his mother need not grieve,

as it was clear they’d never strike again

at such a target that so quickly fell

not one combatant felt a touch of pain.

Instead there was a story they would tell 

of such a battle over in swift time

as to suggest the enemy could smell

defeat arriving in a single chime,

and so departed in unruly haste.

So here I’m ending with this simple rhyme.

That cloudy morning when my heart felt to cry

When I see horses running on the plain

I’m always pleased with their fantastic grace,

the smoothly moving, rapid speed of pace

as I stand idly on the hillside lane,

and work out every loss and every gain

of all the motion I can see or trace,

in every feature of each equine’s face

as they begin to feel the speeding rain.

If you believe life is a golden thread 

with iron scissors bringing it to end

then you should become frozen by your fears

of the dark beings ordained to require 

to punish you each moment that you bend

your painful back, and seek to hide your tears.

I will be yelled at for a foolish risk

Each time I clamber up the drystone wall

it’s an adventure felt deeply inside,

my feet aren’t certain they won’t let me fall,

and the rough limestone threatens my soft hide.

Here as the sun sets and the day is done 

I find great horror where a spider’s spun 

the thinnest silver thread with drops of dew

enough to make it visible in air.

I smile at noticing the pretty new 

when I should be moving back in fear.

I miss the indication I should run.

I find great horror where a spider’s spun 

a web of thinnest, brightest polished steel,

with oddest creatures taken in its hold.

I am too scared to retreat or to flee 

although I feel my arteries turn cold.

Irrationally, I think I  need a gun:

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

Then when I catch sight of the arthropod 

I can’t forebear from emitting a scream

of invocation to an absent god

as I discover this is not a dream.

Reality I can’t afford to shun:

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

From deep inside I raise sufficient fire 

to move straight backwards from this shining trap.

This action is far less than I require, 

and I am now full as latrine with crap.

I watch the spider a strange monster stun,

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

When I seek for an answer there is none,

I find great horror where a spider’s spun.

When you gaze from the hilltop to the sea

it seems as smooth as a ceramic bowl,

what you observe is not what you should see.

All our philosophers seem to agree

unclarity of light takes a hard toll

when you gaze from the hilltop to the sea.

The little tower is just a half degree 

from sliding into a false magic hole,

what you observe is not what you see

but eager eyes will not set the truth free 

even though vision can never be quite sole

when you gaze from the hilltop to the sea.

The ordinary folk cannot foresee 

they have no real idea of the goal;

what you observe is not what you should see 

because you failed to set the passive free,

and made your self-destructive thoughts your soul 

when you gaze from the hilltop to the sea

what you observe is not what you should see.

Have you a good whip?

 Suppose you find some strange thing on the map,

a village that had not been there before,

or a mid-river mine of iron ore,

would you expect it to be a mere trap?

Or is it simply a strange form of gap

between reality and something more,

unknown to our traditional lore,

and hidden from the ordinary chap?

There is no difficulty getting lost 

when you are following a petty fool

whose self-importance makes him a bad guide;

but when you’ve paid more than the normal cost 

you do not hold back from flaying his hide.

The morning could not speak to me

Watching the poem fail is no huge shock,

writing of sun and moon is a mistake,

so is a sonnet on the salty lake.

Perhaps it is now time to take true stock,

before the tired readers swear, laugh, and mock.

They cry out loud that I’m just one more fake, 

a failing poet whose words fall and break 

with all the rhythmic force of a dull rock.

I dare not laugh, but also cannot sigh,

I lost this match, I could not raise the steam 

to take my locomotive from the shed.

My mind has no clear image, and my eye

is disconnected from all thought or dream,

 the sheen upon my words has fallen dead.

So there’s this liar

This villain, long past his youth,

still has an implacable tooth

that helps him destroy 

all delight, trust, and joy.

But, most of all, crunches the truth.