fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 no echo here but silence tightly wound

upon the spindle of the rising year

has its effect on this our unburnt ground

where moths and spider in their turn appear

in pallid sheen with shadows most austere

our voices falter we do not belong

in place or time when memories are strong

 

ears are alert for the first human sound

for that one thing that we might hold most dear

explaining why the quiet is so profound

and why each heart must feel the touch of fear

before new day but nothing will come clear

the birds are sleeping this night will last long

cold hours must pass before we hear their song

 

there's no one present to teach or expound

those complex riddles about which we care

such folk of comfort are never around

when there's a nasty chill upon the air

or complications in the great affair

they simply vanish still if we prolong

our patient waiting dawn will strike the gong

 

some proper answer remains to be found

the process seeming almost cavalier

it being grasped and purposed on rebound

seeming to be the waste of a career

but those who cannot feel have yet to hear

the truth of where they are and we belong

in proper place to right all that went wrong

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 the journey we've begun has no right end

or so we think since all our hopes are wild

for there are many motives we'll defend

though not all of our charges are defiled

by hatreds of the sort that you reviled

when speaking in plain justice of the fact

that none of us come through the world intact

 

each of the winners learns just how to bend

the moment that she stops being a child

while he who's wise knows best just to pretend

a temperament that's always calm and mild

just so the watching eye is safe beguiled

none of these matters is at all abstract

keep this in mind and you won't be attacked

 

not one of us can think now to depend

on those who might be honourably styled

our champions we can't call on one friend

whose name is not in the red record filed

to live full grown and not die as a child

that's all the purpose we will not be wracked

but others must be seen to live and act

admonition

Aug. 26th, 2007 01:33 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

let every one of us who means to speak
not fear the coming of the daily light
for it's enough to be demure and meek
but not to show that you can still feel fright
the options that we have are not so bright
but in the end we come to understand
we can't just operate on straight command

the rules apply to both the strong and weak
it isn't that the power comes as of right
the one who vanishes is not a freak
but gifted with extraordinary sight
knowing just when to come in proper might
what matters then is what we have to hand
who cares a hoot if it is sharp or bland

who comes to us we might not ever seek
and that is the full measure of our plight
without real help we would be up the creek
trapped in a sort of never-ending night
although we know that symbol is so trite
we're yet obliged to follow when the band
strikes up and passes the reviewing stand

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

let every voice that comes within our ken
sing praises to our sovereign lord and king
wiser by far than we mere mortal men
the music that he gives us we shall sing
knowing the tune from every heart will spring
sounds shall be nobly played by noble liar
and all our hopes be cast into hot fire

the king is not by thought or worry vexed
he leads us to a place we shan't escape
and all our wisdom will there be perplexed
we will not find it any sort of jape
being obliged to bend and bow and scrape
all of our joy shall with a wave be lost
and we will yet remain to count the cost

anger and fear will our confusion forge
this future turns out not to be so bright
the dragon's fated to defeat saint george
and every road will lead to deepest night
our eyes will seem to lose the power of sight
and though the captain make promise and boast
the ship will founder ere it reach the coast

lives have been lost and many more will go
before we see again the living sun
each will have melted like a late spring snow
power does not rise from every angry gun
but is a thing that must be subtly won
still nonsense goes ahead in fair disguise
and truth is overwhelmed by sweetest lies

let peasants die but we can ill afford
to see our leader pay the honest price
a worker's life's worth far less than a lord
and we can find another in a trice
a pile of bodies still could not suffice
to bring the victory promised in dream
for things are never simply what they seem

all we can do is hope and curse and work
changes that come may yet undo the pain
and when they do the wise would never shirk
but build the tower even in pouring rain
wall in the demons that still rage and strain
and swear that they would next be dead and cold
before they'd take the glitter for the gold

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