fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 no meaning in the noise just empty rage

but meaning in the numbers we can read

a lamentation for the passing age

so much is noted in the angry deed

not one second of silence they concede

although rough bone on bone will harshly grate

they won't surrender to the ones they hate

 

so little of our temper they can gauge

and not a portion of our urgent need

that forces us to deepest loudest rage

at sight of all their  joyful hateful greed

the product of the nature of their breed

they name this glory and call this their state

they won't surrender to the ones they hate

 

with such an enemy we can't engage

without an understanding of their creed

more than the lying words upon the page

we cannot trust the man riding the steed

who tells us that like us he has to bleed

and though their pain like ours can become great

they won't surrender to the ones they hate 

 

they will not quit their places on the stage

nor pay our anger any sort of heed

for that we know slow death's the only wage

and harsh uprooting as with any weed

justice we know we never could exceed

since though we tell our story plain and straight

they won't surrender to the ones they hate

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 across the solitudes a single moan

passes and we are locked into the plight

of one far distant who is not alone

although that pain is hidden from our sight

nothing is done by you in our despite

at invocation we will light the blaze

we see again the colder harder days

 

you know the value of a simple stone

and how to make it shed a little light

that will convert to something hardly known

to those who claim to be straight and forthright

our task is not to hasten nor excite

but to take you most swiftly through the maze

we see again the colder harder days

 

we know the colour of the human bone

and how to polish it and turn it bright

as instrument to punish and atone

plain cure for darkness and the coming blight

this product of the sacrificial height

must be exposed unto the divine gaze

we see again the colder harder days

 

hopes and desires are wholly overblown

what is to come will never give us right

nor any justice since the truth is flown

out of the window into the cold night

and what is left is not for our delight

no one would want to give us love or praise

we see again the colder harder days

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 those who find ways to strangle their own hope

are not the kings whose purpose we must praise

their only journey is down the last slope

we want nothing to do with their lost ways

our choice instead is with the morning blaze

the light that comes before the flaming sun

the star whose meaning we can never shun

 

we pay out many lengths of this rough rope

and wait for what seem endless sets of days

it is our task simply to wait and cope

with all the matters within normal gaze

we aren't rewarded with any bouquets

nor can we see no matter where we run

the star whose meaning we can never shun

 

we are not cleansed with any weight of soap

nor hampered by the endless laws delays

if we can't walk our enemies can't lope

and the wise donkey it is that now brays

truths that the coming god is he who slays

all that deny him and what's well begun

the star whose meaning we can never shun

 

we have the choice to abstain or to tope

stand still or dance in these complex ballets

be silent or announce the modern trope

knowing that the one who speaks first betrays

all that he is and these are no clichés

so much is said but nothing has been done

the star whose meaning we can never shun

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 so much of who we are comes down to pain

we choose to fear our thoughts and not to rest

when all we have to do is just abstain

from acting and let others do their best

to show their zeal and justify their zest

our hearts belong to the soft flute and lyre

and all we do is temper your desire

 

your choice is simple come in from the rain

and leave to others now the daily test

some things should be as obvious and plain

as if they had by others been confessed

but you would move at their not our behest

to raise your voice in that abysmal choir

and all we do is temper your desire

 

you don't expect to go against the grain

without some price being instantly assessed

life is not life without some darkling bane

upon your body at some time being pressed

you do not hold such things close to your breast

but flee at once from indications dire

and all we do is temper your desire

 

to act with thought will bring you greater gain

than thoughtless action you would soon detest

that should be obvious and not arcane

this is no time for foolishness or jest

as better folk than you can well attest

you have to show your worth to any buyer

and all we do is temper your desire

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 we listen for the watcher at the gate
to cry us up and bid us now to wake
proclaiming that the sun is in full state
it's time for the last parting word to make
and slip out swiftly lest there be mistake
though heart and clothing alike may be torn
we must obey the warnings of the dawn

some say that outcomes are products of fate
an utterance by those who lack a stake
or who don't care a fig at any rate
each slumbering body into action shake
one must depart before the sun may bake
and though the heart feel both sad and forlorn
we must obey the warnings of the dawn

each enters and then leaves with stealthy gait
when to all eyes the world's dark and opaque
nobody thinks that time has a swift rate
and when you most will not your soul forsake
you think of all the risks of long heartache
and though we treat this fresh new light with scorn
we must obey the warnings of the dawn

the greatest peril lies in waking late
and knowing you've got little time to take
one final kiss as the rules still dictate
then swiftly down the wall and to the lake
unworried by the threat of fox or snake
if the desire's to greet another morn
we must obey the warnings of the dawn

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
no reason now to disregard or flout
any who come in with a noble air
it's far too easy for a fool to spout
all sorts of nonsense without any care
but honesty and decency are rare
while human kindness has not been a thing
of which a single soul has been aware
the summer swallow is not on the wing

the ones who know not what they talk about
will all complain that life is never fair
but none of them has yet been racked with doubt
about the duties that they have to bear
no thought of honour have they now to spare
but all of them desire to have a fling
before the coming of dark and despair
the summer swallow is not on the wing

the ones who talk are not the most devout
regarding their desires but they will stare
at anyone who comes to jump and shout
in celebration at the village square
they will resist the anger and the glare
but should be ready soon to leap or spring
upon the ones who'd never think to dare
the summer swallow is not on the wing

only the coward fears to suffer rout
the rest of us will see what we can bear
in facing perils we hope to be stout
and keep our spirits in the best repair
the best will all the foolery forswear
while to the fray they will their honour bring
that is the fine thing about this affair
the summer swallow is not on the wing

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
there's always choice to be happy or glum
to do just one task or to do much more
but no one bothers to add up the sum
there's no gigantic parent keeping score
once we depart there is no other shore
as one thing ends no other need begin
the way you live's the only way to win

no reason though to go upon the bum
but to do what will make it not a bore
till we return to where we started from
with all achieved and no need to be sore
avoiding all the things that we abhor
and keeping to a mininum the spin
the way you live's the only way to win

the world we want is not a horrid slum
but horrors are too many to ignore
still no reality can make us numb
or keep us from the things that we adore
as long as we know what we're aching for
and what we do's better than where we've been
the way you live's the only way to win

to master life's worth far more than a crumb
to do our work and then pass through the door
to the smart rhythm of a lively drum
having done nothing that we could deplore
but borne our load and wielded a good oar
to face the last dead halt without chagrin
the way you live's the only way to win

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
we don't just let the big wheels idly spin
while on their purposes we long reflect
our sole intention is to fight and win
and no worse outcome do we project
for all the answers that you might confect
we know that each day rapidly grows old
but all that matters is the shining gold

each action has its dark shadowy twin
but that should not our happy thought deject
we look for positives when we have been
the ones to say the words and then select
the goodly matters best for the elect
since that's a story that needs to be told
but all that matters is the shining gold

we know the slower ones won't soon begin
before the angry have the cowards decked
we know the shark before we note the fin
and all things happen as we would expect
our task is just to sum up and collect
once the events we waited for unfold
but all that matters is the shining gold

you keep your feelings right under the skin
a practice that we do not think correct
since you will blame us when you choose to sin
against the freedom that we won't reject
yet all your ranting achieves no effect
you have gained not a thing that we controlled
but all that matters is the shining gold

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 we would not ask for any kind of pay
but just to have our claims all kept in mind
we have so much to do on this bright day
but need a moment simply to unwind
there is a reason not to be unkind
and watch the brown leaves as they at last fall
no better time than now for standing tall

we've never seen the snowfall or the sleigh
but eaten fruit and thrown away the rind
this sort of winter's better than okay
the walls that will go up are oaked or pined
leaving no shelter for the hart or hind
we put such matters far beyond the wall
no better time than now for standing tall

we are the actors in some sort of play
don't know our parts and do the whole thing blind
the sheep and cows are happy in their hay
we do not put you in some form of bind
the bed we make is comfortably lined
and there are candles lit within the hall
no better time than now for standing tall

republics are the only honest way
to rule the free and noble civil mind
each citizen must be allowed their say
this is the sigil of true humankind
the truest course of all that we might find
at once to hearken to the people's call
no better time than now for standing tall
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
There's nothing that conveys a sense of fear
as when you see a fast car bearing down
on you, and it becomes startlingly clear
the driver's not much better than a clown.
You may get angry, you might even frown,
but you know, with a growing sense of dread,
there's every chance that you will wind up dead.
But, as in every chance, what seems to count
is what you think, what's inside your small head;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

What you find at such times you cannot bear,
is thoughts about whether you hang or drown;
you're rooted to the spot, you cannot tear
yourself away; your trousers will turn brown
and you'll express yourself with vulgar noun,
and all of life will hang on by a thread.
You'd give up every particle of street cred
if you could somehow this terror surmount.
But nothing works, you're paralysed by dread;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

The vehicle, with luck, will halt in its career;
the driver might have learned his art in town.
Still, even as you express thanks you jeer
at someone who deserves a dunce's crown,
who lacks, indeed, any type of renown.
What you demand is that he pay you bread,
or you'll be calling the police instead.
And he'd better do this before you count
to ten, and call down anger on his head;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

Austin Princess, you have gone on ahead
the news and information for to spread.
This fool of money's a veritable fount.
His mind is stone, his foot is made of lead;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

Profile

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
fledgist

March 2015

S M T W T F S
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22 232425262728
29 3031    

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags