fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 if there are ways to measure all the tale

in years of story how the shapes are made

without an edge of humour being frayed

by passing breeze or rough attacking gale

you'd say that we must in this wise assail

the aged creators of the human braid

for all the crimes of their despairing trade

before we mark their effort with a fail

no truths have been discovered by our kind

without an effort to disturb the soil

uproot the weeds and plant a better seed

so that the newer products of keen mind

emergent in the end from bitter toil

can match the urge exactly to the deed
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

emerging from the freighted dark no thought

but that the sky be clear and hands be filled

with all the needful that your warm hearts willed

when in good daylight the first words were caught

by eager listeners who had been taught

that not all prizes went to those best drilled

in the arcana of the freshly-killed

rather to ones who would account for naught

there is a victory that no one regrets

up in the hills when all the gifts are due

then hunters call and do not comprehend

the plainer meanings and the open sets

though when we have been silenced and review

our final forces we find there’s no end

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

what’s left unknown weighs down  until we bleat

in rage and fear then leave off being bold

for better nights and stories wiser told

as those with longer practice wait the fleet

leaving the late ones to patrol the street

in angry silence so while it is cold

as the dew rises and the night turns old

the urgent and the foolish still may meet

this is the game of rats that always prey

upon the leavings that once made for joy

cast away now beneath the starless sky

as every denizen flees from the day

in certainty that even truth’s a toy

and honour turns out just another lie

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 yesterday's snow is dirty now and dark

we look for ice and worry about shade

as the sun rises and the long parade

of normal time resumes along the stark

roads and each newly-woken seems to mark

a world made gritty when light must abrade

both faith and fear the horror we have made

there's nothing but the chance of a new spark

from a great distance in another zone

there's news more bitter than the fleeting cold

and nothing that can make it feel more light

since each plain word will cut right to the bone

yet do no more than let us know what's told

which is that all will come to end in night

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 in the deep silence when the heavy snow

had closed the ways and frozen every road

each of us certain that no river flowed

and turning inwards for the gentle glow

of  home and hope that love will soon bestow

on all of those who have found out the code

of normal joy there's no more human mode

for us to find nor for the heart to know

yet as the dark descends on the cold city

we're held together by another light

clearer and kinder than we might deserve

safe in a time we know for rough and gritty

and made secure by truth instead of might

we find the gold around the final curve

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

these are the laws with which all must comply

within the bounds not just of this one state

but under all the norms of human freight

as though we were not only passing by

like winter birds up in the cloudless sky

each on its way towards a waiting mate

with certain knowledge of the coming date

true clarity of vision in each eye

so duty comes upon us and we weep

for all those moments when we could not stand

in proper place right by the open door

where ordinary watchers just might keep

a welcome jug of water close to hand

and for the hungry perhaps something more

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

no echoes but the silence is so loud

that we are caught between the dark and pain

of interrupted morning once again

when rushing with all ants in the huge crowd

each is obliged to do what is allowed

take up the load and soak in the old stain

just hope that we are moving with the grain

and all the while refrain from being proud

those are the rules and they were clearly made

beyond the veil since they’re a simple law

meant to apply in every human course

until recall of all our deeds shall fail

then in good time we’ll offer up the flaw

leaving the payment to a lesser force

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 so much is lost inside the space of dark

where what we see and hear is felt so hard

that when we tear or find the door is barred

to every vision and without a mark

we turn to go we hasten to embark

on one more journey while you stand on guard

with eyes close watching on the final yard

as all our choices now have come down stark

no names are mentioned in the frozen place

where all are sorted for the last short trip

out to oblivion yet there's a chance

that these sad agents of the human race

may for a moment get themselves a grip

so joining in the finest kind of dance

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

where no one sits there’s no reason to wait

yet there are many who with sharp regard

look in the distance with eyes that are hard

to see what they can measure of the gait

or bearing of the folk whose heavy freight

will end like all things in the somber yard

together with the honest and disbarred

and all that we can do is blame dull fate

our vision does not fail yet when we glance

outside the window matters not so bold

will move us not to hope but unto ire

for what we know seems ruled by evil chance

while brilliant sunshine does nothing to cold

since long ago each chose to bank the fire

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

all that we know is measured in degrees

of silence or of truth that we declare

not loudly but most firmly into air

that has been purified by these dark trees

standing impassive in the midday breeze

while we afflicted by most reasoned fear

are not so hopeful that we’ll choose to dare

go through the woods to face the heat or freeze

no options are so good are purest chance

but all our wishes end up just as vain

as when we started so we must endure

let other figures enter in the dance

hope for the sun but buck up under rain

and face each ill uncertain of the cure

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 let us recall  the best effects of style

when those who listen know how best to hear

and do not injure those who hold most dear

the hidden blessings of the final mile

rather they wish the urgent to beguile

expecting that the best might engineer

sounds that will please the most discerning ear

and lead once drooping eyes to shine and smile

the age of wonder has no fixed return

but comes upon us as we seem to find

not a changed world but a remarked abode

the home that we have loved for which we yearn

that seemed so hidden for time out of mind

appear before us as we climb the road

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 with what fresh words of choice or soft regret

are we to fight our battles now that time

has tolled against us the dull weight of grime

obscures our vision but no sort of debt

to past or future could hurt or abet

the heart of purpose as we seek to climb

beyond this moment past the normal slime

where there is neither  injury nor fret

you see us crawling searching for one spark

of ordinary kindness that might lead

the normal person from their weary plight

relieve our hearts from burden of the dark

reward with honour the most worthy deed

and grant assurance of a renewed light

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

we  fear to echo what the sunlight speaks

in voices that cannot be raised too loud

for fear we might stand out within the crowd

or be admonished as monsters or freaks

so we are silent do not strain our breeks

in the assurance we will not be proud

of course or carriage nothing is allowed

to harm the tenor of our days and weeks

for normal passage this might be enough

but more is needed when we have to find

the kind of courage that you only need

when life has taken all your other stuff

and you’ve been drive mad as well as blind

yet have a chance for one more human deed

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 beneath the cloud is clarity of sight

where choices made do not entail regret

but only wistfulness that we have set

our hopes too high as swiftly-coming night

will end the journey still in our despite

there's magic against which we may not bet

so each must laugh while all the foolish fret

for there's still someone who can make all right

not for us here the option to renew

all the old answers that no longer serve

to cover up what must now be made plain

those monstrous forms that we refuse to view

or the old houses just around the curve

where we used to take shelter from the rain

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 before we cut the cord there is some time

to know the places where all choice is plain

and there is neither complete loss or gain

nor any hiding underneath the grime

for anyone the world is in its prime

we find it easy to remove each stain

nor is it hard to to show or to explain

the value given to each song or chime

while each one waits to hear just how the day

will be reported by the wisest folk

we will not rush unseeing  to remark

upon the rules that bound all work or play

nor those we take to be some kind of joke

that leave  us gasping at return of dark

the test

Aug. 19th, 2013 07:59 am
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 from shadow into shadow there's no need

to measure honour nor to mete out pain

through the sad morning for each must abstain

from that fierce propaganda of the deed

which was by action of straight force decreed

since all the nature of this world's made plain

and we learn both the cure and the heart's bane

what makes us whole and what will make us bleed

truth does not give the agent much real choice

you get to act since there's nowhere to rest

this side of death that is the one sure fact

instead you have to give justice a voice

face the rough world and submit to the test

just hoping to get all the way intact

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 we always seem to leave there in the rain

not in light drizzle but a heavy pour

that catches us straightway we leave the door

yet we're back with no reason once again

to find our way through torrents to the plain

it seems too much and yet we ask for more

as if this were a torment we adore

the price of pleasure being this hard strain

the thunder speaks and we dare not respond

since all our fears are centred in that sound

when it is echoed by each traitor heart

revealing that we won't refuse the bond

and most afraid that hope will not rebound

because our hands and minds have lost the art

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 the name is wrong the memory still right

of the grey trees beside the drystone wall

fruiting in summer so lush in recall

and seen so clearly in approaching night

as we looked up to see the birds in flight

the setting sun that gorgeous red ball

as into the green sea it seemed to fall

made of it one stark blessing of a sight

we cannot know what goods may come to pass

on this hard journey up and down the hill

but dare not bid a single minute stay

yet what we see reflected in the glass

is not the force either of wit or will

but all the markings of the normal way

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 no trumpets echo in the deepest night

each is alone and must make their own way

towards the portals that let in new day

lacking the hearty pleasures of insight

and most uncertain still the bastard fright

will not much longer have unfettered sway

within this realm nor will the foolish bray

insisting on what cannot long be right

what we find true belongs to honest chance

the golden bloom that in the dawn we pluck

with loving thoughts arisen in each heart

ready the while to furnish our advance

with certainty that goes beyond plain luck

and all the wisdom that is from our art

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 viewing the tree in full and honest leaf

wet with the rain and startling in its green

indecency of summer is to mean

both more and less than normal plain belief

that nature is a sort of crafty thief

taking all life once she has set the scene

and leaving nothing but the space between

the moments of creation and sharp grief

for here is full eruption of true life

at its great peak of wealth to be adored

by all who wish to see it lasting long

yet who forget both efforts and hard strife

in hope to keep eternal the true chord

and hear within each heart a simple song

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