fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 the nightly croaking from the pond

recalls another time and place

the sounds do not quite correspond

but have an equal sort of grace

 

what's winter here has turned so mild

that we can see the forceful green

reminder of the nearby wild

just inches past the window screen

 

those arguments that we have made

regarding mother nature's pain

seem all at once a sad charade

as weeds spring up after the rain

 

what we have learnt is very clear

about the cycles in their course

of tropic or of temperate year

they have the same gigantic force

 

the frogs that croak in pond or tree

ignoring us proclaiming life

for their short passage do live free

and teach us something about strife

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

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

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

 

so much to see upon the screen

the pain is palpable and clear

i hear the words know what they mean

the suffering comes through the air

to dwell on this seems quite obscene

while i'm at work and in my chair

their lives were wiped out clear and clean

so i say words of grief and care

 

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

 

the hurricane was on the news

so many folk thought it was fun

to treat the poor as plain refuse

face their despair with blade and gun

pretend they had the right to choose

the easy way to flee or run

announce these were the only views

and that the time for talk was done

 

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

 

chaos is hidden by the door

turn off the radio and you're fine

the way of good is to ignore

all painful things be struthionine

they do not touch us at the core

no matter how the angry whine

nobody keeps a final score

or lets us see the bottom line

 

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
Prices are rising, driving us all mad,
we all agree that no one can relax;
this is the worst condition, things are bad,
and we can't bear up under these attacks.
McCain says "Cheer up, every lass and lad,
don't shiver in the face of these small cracks!
There is no reason for you to be sad.
We'll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!"

No one could doubt that someone would be glad
to send old John an email or a fax,
explaining just exactly how to add
some more gravitas to his ancient tracks.
For while we suffer he still has to pad
around selling ideas taken from mouldy sacks
and smelling rather worse than day-old shad:
"We'll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!"

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
by what command we do not know
the words are written and remain
answer has come but very slow
we do not hope to see again

just what the truth was in the press
or who began the count or why
the answer was it no or yes
the reason was it truth or lie

songs that were sung by hasty sorts
have been forgotten but regret
has worked its triumph through the courts
the road is marked the path is set

master and servant disagree
on how the wages shall be paid
one says the other shall not see
the outcome of the final raid

what's eaten is not any food
that we would choose were we to pay
the price is what had once accrued
upon the ones who chose the way

so marching on the road of choice
we lacked the sense to sit and weep
others were fated to rejoice
we were the ones who had to sleep

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
as we sit and face the future
there's no one knows just what we'll need
anger breeds on edge of suture
fire declares itself with speed

rhyme and reason fade in panic
fire and water meet in peace
not a one who waits is manic
yet not a one could blame caprice

grant the fire will burn the clover
and mighty flood will cleanse the vale
nothing's left here to recover
none of the wise will hear this tale

shallow paint the world in colour
make the choices come out flat
things will seem to come out duller
the night belongs to angry bat
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
spring covers all in its rich coats of green
we love the warmer days and longer hours
the world seems cleaner with a brighter sheen
but still i want to speak of autumn flowers

a time will come when leaves have gone to mould
when we will daily long for warmer showers
we'll have a choice dull wet or brilliant cold
but still i want to speak of autumn flowers

the colours that i see will cheer the mind
revive good thoughts and all my native powers
leaving all sadness and sharp fear behind
but still i want to speak of autumn flowers

regard the fence in purple pink and red
the blooms stand tall not a one of them cowers
the plants seem happy in their fertile beds
and so i want to speak of autumn flowers

homecoming

Oct. 17th, 2007 08:03 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

 we take such moments as we can
what is allowed we cannot tell
there is no central map or plan
the journey does not end in hell

nor is a heaven on the cards
for all the holy good and true
the distance is not miles nor yards
and what we find is never new

allow the words to have their time
we come we go and that is all
we tell the truth in prose or rhyme
we rise we falter and we fall

there is no sign beyond the last
we cannot bend our sight so far
we fade quite swiftly to the past
to those who come there is no bar

allow us but a moment's peace
to sing our songs and tell our tales
to stand upright behind the crease
and cry out at the falling bails

this world is neither round nor flat
but follows quite a crooked line
we have our seconds at the bat
and then we go while others dine

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
the echo of the mad machine
warns us of yet another hell
sounds that are yet wholly unclean
suppress the organ and the bell
what older folk would not have seen
cannot be hidden by a spell
the angry monsters do not preen
we do not hear the victim yell

a terror that comes in deep night
is not the one we should have known
the words that will each spirit fright
tell us that justice has long flown
the chance of honour is but slight
the crocodile's now fully grown
ancestral deaths it must requite
and into desert turn the sown

shadow of choices we've not made
a fear that life has passed us by
the endless armies on parade
the television's booming lie
we are seduced to be afraid
of screaming death from hateful sky
the ones who could not make the grade
now look on us with horrid eye

there is no longer healing rain
behind the clouds the sun's quite cold
we can no longer see things plain
we are too fearful to be bold
demons occupy the terrain
our spirits now have become old
all we can feel is endless pain

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (negative avatar)
 
not wide the door
narrow the path
we ask for more
but not for wrath
there's some in store
no board but lath
right at the core
the aftermath

a shallow pool
beneath the tree
the weather cool
the moment free
a needed tool
we have to see
now time to school
who pays the fee

a moment's rain
relieves no curse
a ninny's brain
is none the worse
we find this plain
an empty purse
a single stain
but rhyming verse

expect no flame
but watch for light
this is no game
you've got it right
a moment's shame
an hours delight
ask for a name
you have a fight

the river's near
but now it's dark
the cost not dear
we leave no mark
those at the rear
to them we hark
what they can bear
is not so stark

along the road
commuters drive
each with a load
that must arrive
no simple code
to gain the hive
the horse one rode
can't stay alive

no forest now
the houses spread
a single vow
before you're dead
don't worry how
the thing is read
a rusted plough
is dull and red

against the wall
the laggards stand
they hear no call
they raise no hand
not standing tall
without command
we see them fall
the ragged band

what we believe
is almost true
you must deceive
by dimmer hue
if we receive
a morning blue
you might achieve
a symbol new

shadow of time
at edge of sight
to squeeze a lime
won't make it right
the steady climb
ends in a fright
no honest crime
that is our plight

a time to dance
but not to speak
a single glance
may turn you weak
the troops advance
but you won't seek
the slimmest chance
to cross the creek

i'll write no lies
but you'll proclaim
up to the skies
that there's no shame
in all the spies
who play this game
their empty eyes
fill with a flame

accept that paws
can cross each line
there is no cause
we'd call divine
the masters' tawse
drives to the mine
these are the laws
we'll have the wine

we have to choose
you know the odds
but win or lose
we'll feel the rods
no time for booze
for thirsty bods
out of the ooze
we make our gods

the times aren't hard
but we sense threat
roads are not barred
no one will vet
to see what's marred
no cause to fret
we've got the card
the path's still wet

there's not one way
back to the heart
through all the grey
we find each part
of all we'll say
right from the start
the words won't fray
that's the true art

what you require
is that we break
the weight of ire
make no mistake
just to aspire
to more than fake
will raise a fire
beside the lake

choices are rough
the hour's not done
there's not enough
to choose or shun
a single cough
not cause to run
be weak or tough
but greet the sun

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
a time shall come when all folk have to act
no simple choices but a plain desire
to bring us back to a world of clear fact
and light in every heart the sacred fire
with rapid feet with bags already packed
we wait for messages on the swift wire
to take the thing that we always have lacked
beginning low to reach up ever higher

the people long forced down upon their knees
see freedom's banner waving in the breeze

shadow falls on us yet we cannot halt
the world refuses to wait for one man
the fortress will be taken by assault
the ones who dare will be right in the van
freedom's the right of all beneath the vault
we seize the power accepting that we can
with effort overcome each native fault
and put all tyrants underneath the ban

the people long forced down upon their knees
see freedom's banner waving in the breeze

for far too long we've bowed beneath the skies
to clowns whose painted faces seem to shine
with warmth and fervour to fool childish eyes
while they on their soft beds love to recline
knowing that they've already got the prize
proclaiming that injustices are fine
piling the nonsense right upon the lies
their only honest thought is i've got mine

the people long forced down upon their knees
see freedom's banner waving in the breeze

but trapped in corners we are not so tame
that each will cringe surrender on their back
we're not immune to anger nor to shame
we know they waste all of the things we lack
each of us still a person with a name
and not another turnip in a sack
within each heart there burns a sacred flame
we are still human and we will attack

dying afoot's better than bending knees
see freedom's banner waving in the breeze
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
i have not any chances
but now i've got a home
there are no sudden glances
none of us have to roam
a deer in the night prances
the sky's a distant dome
no time now for romances
we close the heavy tome

a house upon the hillside
behind us there's a pond
never a one who will ride
no power left to bond
all of us here must feel pride
no need to wave a wand
we do not have to still hide
behind a leafy frond

no lions roam the nighttime
there are no warriors here
we listen to a windchime
a pleasure to the ear
adding the juice of one lime
brings many memories near
each poem has a plain rhyme
holding a thought so dear

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (negative avatar)
we have fresh apples now and wine in flagons
but see no unicorns and spy no dragons

choose well the realm where you will sink your heart
for after you will have no proper rest
the whole of life's just playing a small part
routine injustice removes any zest
we find that nature's got a sort of art
but what we see in dreams remains the best
the ones who rule us never give a fart
but simply lie and tell us it's a test

we have fresh apples now and wine in flagons
but see no unicorns and spy no dragons

a child may move from myth onto the map
and find that truth requires a kind of lie
a world half glimpsed between the game and nap
a shape that's written on the empty sky
elves that tread quietly and dare to tap
your sleeping shoulder and stare in your eye
and then we grow up and the world's just crap
you work your arse off and you have to die

we have fresh apples now and wine in flagons
but see no unicorns and spy no dragons

each day we sink far deeper in the hole
burnt in the sun and soaked by dreary rain
we get no closer to the hoped-for goal
and all our promise turns to gritty pain
explorers do not seek the distant pole
all life seems focused on some petty gain
work and commute grind down each weary soul
smiling requires that we must sweat and strain

we have fresh apples now and wine in flagons
but see no unicorns and spy no dragons

a tiny change what others call a blunder
would take us to a place where light is grand
where frolic all the creatures of great wonder
where perish all the tasks and duties bland
a world made out of lighting and thunder
where happy warriors may make a stand
break all the hellish bonds at once asunder
and show us all a better promised land

we have fresh apples still and wine in flagons
but dance with unicorns and sport with dragons
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
a time of change comes quickly on this place
supping the wine from an old-fashioned flagon
desire and hope each fight for proper space
we are now in the age of elf and dragon

lordship of earth shines from a magic face
we load the drunken fools onto a waggon
now comes a time of power and of grace
we are now in the age of elf and dragon

we note the ones of more than human race
of what we built nothing is left but lagan
the chances and the powers here embrace
we now are in the age of elf and dragon

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

 

the stars above us with their glow
illuminate no simple places
we aren't the ones who want to know
just what is hidden by our faces
we move on upwards fast or slow
leaving behind the merest traces
each night there is another show
of all the righteous airs and graces

alarmed by every sort of call
we wait for others to agree
behind each happy sight a wall
is hidden yet the wise may see
the days are not so very tall
but last as long as we decree
the rain we hope will start to fall
before we want to go on spree

echoes across the empty plain
the voices of the storied past
those symbols of another pain
each wanting sure to be the last
all messages of hope or gain
upon the silent seas are cast
we leave behind some kind of stain
and all the heroes stand aghast

a meaningful sort of command
in proper ceremonial rite
defines to whom the very land
belongs and who is not in sight
of what the hardest-working band
brings back in profit day and night
the older practices are banned
and not a candle may burn bright

years may not pass before the dawn
of newer ways and better hearts
a host of weeds covers the lawn
no one assembles all the parts
brain counts for half as much as brawn
and armour cannot blunt the darts
the stag may overcome the fawn
but we have not the sable arts

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

 

All of our houses are machines for living,
machines for living, machines for living;
all of our houses are machines for living,
that is the mode of le Corbusier.

We build in hard concrete, it's brutal and simple;
we don't need to use any natural wood;
our buildings rise truest, without a dimple,
we're for good living, and that's the great good.

All of our houses &c.

The 20th century's the age of eruptions
we'll build a new heaven without any pause;
avoiding the tricks, and all the corruptions,
construction must follow by linear laws.

All of our houses &c.

We'll house the hard workers in tall-rising towers
;the metro and buses collect and disperse
the ones who in sanitary, well-lighted bowers,
will be educated and rarely will curse.

All of our houses &c.

Later generations could never demolish,
the towers we have built here of solid concrete;
we've made things correctly, given them polish,
but made them unsuited for soft human feet.

All of our houses &c.
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

'All and every the Persons who on the said first Day of August One thousand eight hundred and thirty-four shall be holden in Slavery within any such British Colony as aforesaid shall upon and from and after the said first Day of August One thousand eight hundred and thirty-four become and be to all Intents and Purposes free and discharged of and from all Manner of Slavery, and shall be absolutely and for ever manumitted; and that the Children thereafter to be born to any such Persons, and the Offpring of such Children shall in like Manner be free from their Birth; and that from, and after the said first Day of August One thousand eight hundred and thirty-four Slavery shall be and is hereby utterly and for ever abolished and declared unlawful throughout the British Colonies, Plantations, and Possessions Abroad.' The Slavery Abolition Act 1833


every river runs to an ending place
we can't be sure that we know every turn
we praise the water praise the river's grace
and wonder if we'll ever truly learn

the honest tale of all that it has seen
just how the fields that rim it came to be
the names of all the people who have been
linked to this spot the names of every tree

that's cast its leaves into the stream's long flow
tales that will bring back all the childish joy
and tales for those who truly want to know
of what hard metals they are the alloy

so to begin the fisher folk who came
before the records later ones would write
have left us only here and there a name
and their own visages long passed from sight

and after those who came to turn the land
from green to gold and who brought other folk
making them work and taking from their hand
all of the glory leaving them the yoke

all of their lives have flowed into the dirt
and from the dirt down to the living stream
it's to their living that we must advert
to all their living and to their best dream

the truth is that i carry the strong taint
of both their angers both their frantic rages
history's not a matter for the faint
and honesty rewards us with strange wages

let it be said for those who did the work
it was a sordid task not honest toil
but under the swift lash they did not shirk
blood may flow silent but it still can boil

for boil it did and sugar turned to fire
for one small principle they rose to fight
and though forced down into the fertile mire
knew that each killing blow they struck was right

it does not matter that they rose to die
that every struggle lead only to death
they sought for liberty under the blue sky
and for that sacred thing gave their last breath

a century two hundred years go by
and others listen others hear the call
far different figures join them to defy
and stand with them before that final wall

there isn't much that we now here can say
about the long years of that angry fight
but every thing we hold precious today
is a grave answer to that desperate plight

time may do nothing but free folk can act
to spread their freedom to the ones in pain
can turn their hopes into a shining fact
can bring redemption with the morning rain

knowing that folk who fight and who demand
to have their voices and their anger heard
should have the power to move over the land
and have an equal and an honest word

and so it happened so came that great day
when every chain they shattered and they broke
the mighty dragon ceased to have its way
and freedom came at midnight's happy stroke

the river runs shining and dark to sea
it knows the tale and has no cause to mourn
the ones who work its banks know they are free
and how that freedom from great pain was torn
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
fractured factored shaped by water
not before its time turns ripe
father mother son and daughter
from their faces tears will wipe

now the broken time will cover
all the days that are to come
while the bird of prey will hover
all our voices are struck dumb

name the villain and he blusters
name the hero and he weeps
the bombs now explode in clusters
and the sword of justice sleeps

marginal and not for service
are the ones who will not fall
their appearance makes men nervous
yet they will not make the call

individual dysfunction
makes us wish for sacrifice
but the lesser day's conjunction
tells us there's a higher price

what the magic moment carries
is not what we can yet know
if one hurries the other tarries
for there is not far to go

now we make the moment quicker
but there is no one to see
the lights come on and the flicker
as it was so must it be
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
listen to the stunning trumpets
as they cry out on the walls
listen to the music pour out
like a million waterfalls

name the sound and then you sing it
but your voice may not have range
let the music be unbounded
let all things begin to change

name the awful situations
that you want to end at once
no not let yourself be frightened
he who falters is the dunce

name the power that sets its limits
on the actions of your hand
do not bow to it nor worship
those to come will understand

in the end the magic powers
that we got from sacrifice
will not keep us from becoming
what we really hope is nice
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

we ask each other what things may be done
to keep in order each distinctive name

determination by decree who's lost or won
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

discarding what we know to be the case
we point the finger to apportion blame
each worried at the risk of losing face
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

each undertaking brings us to the time
when we are faced with honour or with shame
if victory we weep while we curse crime
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

revolving with the earth we meet the day
we'd know the moment if it never came
each step leads us on to the proper way
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

at night we hear the sweet birds serenade
the sunrise cocks and grackles will proclaim
each has its part in lifes proper parade
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

the year turns on and we've not paid our due
we know that someday there will be a claim
but we may not be numbered in that few
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

it's time to go we say yet at each door
there is a moment between pride and shame
we pause to say a single good thing more
a dragon is a beast that's never tame

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