fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 you counted golden the worth of your name

now see it tarnished by this acid rain

not generations will remove the stain

of knowing you thought life and death a game

worth playing just so you won greatest fame

while blood and water swirl down every drain

and soldiers laugh at each new orphan's pain

you speak of cities that might feel the flame

so fools cry out and call on you for aid

while skies turn darker and rivers run dry

your mighty shadow seems to many blessed

by divine power so you lead the parade

smiling as you're the focus of each eye

ready to guide us on with massive zest

but no so eager to confront the test

at sight of hardship your star seems to fade

and calls for effort lead your force to die

we ask for help but you won't make the grade

instead you look down from a brazen sky

as the red sun sinks into furthest west

the journey's long the hills hard to ascend

but choosing you is something we could mend

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
when all the fires have gone at last to sleep
what we have left will be some sort of sign
between the belches of stale beer and wine
that there may be some happiness to keep
among the ones who chose to make the leap
believing that the season was divine
are those who in their wisdom might combine
the kind of energy to go down deep
within each heart we say there is a flame
that burns at different paces through the year
and gives most warmth when eyes can see most true
so much depends on saying the right name
on how the word should travel through the air
and reach the place where time must now renew
not just its purpose but the complete view
must change the wild into the truly tame
remake the dark ones into those now fair
grant wisdom fully where we would want fame
and draw the hermit out of her dank lair
to say that she regrets that she withdrew
her heart and mind from the engaging sight
of all the joy that comes on summer night
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 there is a point when we must stretch our reach
not because fruit are hanging from the tree
but simply for the sake of what we see
within our hearts for what we have to teach
this is the point of saying without much speech
just what we mean about what we must be
the words themselves enact our being free
and take us in one moment past the breach
the silence stretches till we cannot bear
the weight of all the motions we still feel
and step by step this breath turns into time
so many seconds counted out of fear
the human body seems made out of steel
and every hour turns into the prime
we name ourselves the victims of this crime
but knowing nothing have no sense of care
and are not anxious yet to make the deal
while on the sidelines all the crowd must stare
their voices roaring out in harsh appeal
demanding that the normal be sublime
this is the end of what we would not speak
the strong must bow at last to us the weak
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
one little moment of a rougher hue
we let the light refract and then we smile
so much the eye and mind have to beguile
this empty heart of life we bring to view
not merely in the forms of white and blue
but as we measure up and down the pile
through understanding of both skill and style
we ring the values back from false to true
all of the colours have come flooding back
after a day we spent in monochrome
yet what we have is not enough to praise
our thoughts revolve around plans of attack
not limited by the bright high blue dome
a matter now of seconds not of days
whatever happens we can never raise
eyes that are attuned only to see lack
while feet are not permitted yet to roam
to all those places within normal gaze
the ones who win will have to leave the track
not knowing how they'll find a safer home
where weight of fortune cannot force a way
such quiet messengers have much to say

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
a kind of freedom which no one could name
beyond the limits of our common day
choices are made about a life of play
while round about others construct a frame
of honour duty service and acclaim
no sun may set in that new western bay
until the youngest folk have learned the way
and not a thing will then remain the same
now here and there we see another sort
whose minds and bodies take a better shape
to fill the vision and rejoice the mind
we do not take this for the long and short
until we know just who will breast the tape
and to just memory is then consigned
this is not what any would leave behind
or any signal to flee or abort
any attempt to survive or escape
the sentence of the highest human court
still we will not allow a simple scrape
to pause our plans to form the undefined
into the matter of our deepest joys
more music and no random vagrant noise

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
i would not ask for any of your gold
bad eyes are watching from surrounding heights
your safety is not certain through these nights
but wait the story still has to unfold
in ways that others deem most uncontrolled
no one you've met has ever known such sights
and powers unmentioned have you dead to rights
on days which warm will rapidly turn cold
as sunlight vanishes with sudden haste
and other folk rejoice to see it shine
i hear the ice start clinking in the stream
such minor tragedies most folk have faced
and do not take the weather for a sign
nor wonder at the meaning of each dream
the thunder's presence adds to the odd gleam
electric colours you could almost taste
and untold energy throbs down the line
now such clear memories have been erased
you and i moan but we're told things are fine
both fear and anger are marked as extreme
so we wait here earnest quiet and grave
knowing that patience by itself won't save

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
around the hill there's no sign of the work
it took to build the road and cut a trail
our efforts might a sort of choice entail
between the daylight and the clutching murk
pressure would not a patient hero irk
but none of us are swifter than a snail
still those who persevere may still prevail
if they will not their obligations shirk
voyaging out means some hope of return
still once you've left you can't just go back
there are no signs that others cannot read
no worker gets the wage that he should earn
and gets the whip if he should feel the lack
such normal pleadings are described as greed
by those whose minds and bodies feel no need
of basic sustenance still if we turn
our faces outward and make the right tack
we find ourselves obliged soon to concede
that with fond memories our minds still burn
not one thought comes that permits some slack
since on our own hearts we're required to feed
and so we find our way back to the place
to seek recall in every friendly face

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
those glyphs and symbols vanish in the dark
we do not know then what the message said
but wonder at the wait there's wine and bread
to keep us going but gods spare the mark
not one of us could serve as nighttime clerk
to speak in silence words of those long dead
whose bodies rot now but whose minds were fed
by the same forces that provide our spark
allow your listeners the chance to think
that they too might a memory so leave
upon the rock or on the fortress wall
read by those who at the spring might drink
or by the yard gate pause a while to grieve
knowing so well that silence must befall
the chances of a change now seem so small
but each of us when driven to the brink
would know that nothing's left that might deceive
no parchment here that's innocent of ink
but much to hide from those that raid and reave
and all's recorded with a bit of gall
the choice is made we know it's not a game
and yet each hopes the lion will be tame

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
there is no safety of that we must warn
the vast majority who know no fact
that can be taught we will not here extract
from you or anyone just what was sworn
by those whose hearts and kidneys have been torn
on highest slopes we see the titan racked
who by the divine vulture has been tracked
whiles muses speak to those as yet unborn
a tyrant would not leave the hero bound
for any rescue by heroic sort
but strike him down and slay him out of hand
the story we've been told turns out unsound
lacking sufficient proof to stand in court
the message we have heard is not so grand
though having heard it we can't understand
why we don't swiftly surely go to ground
seeking firm refuge in a secure fort
still we've been tracked by no gigantic hound
upon the peak we will not be caught short
but held together in a warrior band
we know that we have not come to the end
allowing us to know our truest friend

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
we see the world as tragedy not farce
but doing that is seriously off-base
our knowledge not sufficient for the case
since there are grammars that we cannot parse
the choices here are always rather sparse
but we are not the victims of false grace
truths are well-written in each normal face
and every clown must fall upon his arse
our hearts keep rising from the common ruck
desires and magics claim an equal chance
but we are not so clever as we think
we see bright flowers yet we may not pluck
measure is added to the daily dance
and always we are too close to the brink
we listen but we cannot hear the clink
since all that falls will end up in the muck
and only fools and horses have to prance
an effort only not to speak nor drink
take a small time to stay calm and unstuck
the hero and the fool may both advance
in proper time the paths and ways will harden
so that we find our way back to the garden

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
it does not matter if we have the itch
to seek for worlds hidden in what we know
or just to sit and wait and watch the show
for some small time until we salt the flitch
against the winter we've are not so rich
and what we hope for waiting for the snow
is more than moonlight and the early glow
of sunny morning so that is the bitch
we make and that we want so much to hide
from all the ones who think we're truly pure
while brown and yellow overtake the green
you see we want far more than just the ride
to places of which we are never sure
still what will happen is what we've not seen
while evening peacocks on the frontage preen
the wonder is that we can take a side
on whether beauty truly may endure
while loudly disclaiming both fear and pride
not knowing if there will be any cure
before we have to bow and quit the scene
another mile another horse to flog
you listen but you will not hear the frog

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 The Internet, I find, is not so big
that I cannot poison the parish pump,
upon my kind hosts' best intentions jump
and on their bare heads dance a merry jig.
Here I can come clad both in mask and wig
and drop my anger in a single lump,
in the most public space just take a dump
and then complain when I am called a pig.
It seems the way to exorcise our ghosts
is just to shout that life is never fair
to those of us who lack honour and shame.
You feel much better annoying your hosts,
letting your flatulence pollute the air,
and that way others will think of your name.
The whole thing's nothing but a childish game
of shouts and shadows, loud and anxious boasts,
but nothing matters since my anger's bare.
I'm not the guilty one. I'll take no blame
for what I've written in my silly posts.
You cannot shut me up. You would not dare.
And so one boring life is given worth,
while others wonder at the monstrous birth.

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

 above the mountains where the wyverns hide
we watch fat clouds expand into the east
we do not wonder when we see each beast
rise from the crags and loud proclaim its pride
on unmapped oceans where sea-serpents ride
each sailor fears to attend the great feast
when every demon from chains is released
and enters places where weak humans bide
a sodden weather eases one great fear
that fiery dragons would with flame descend
seizing our sheep from hillside or from fold
we are not certain of the age or year
when light and legend would in wonder blend
and ancient mysteries again unfold
when once again nightwalkers are bold
and angry heroes have once more the care
of the defenceless and the folk who tend
the plains and valleys in both heat and cold
to keep them safe from all powers of the air
and from the goblin decent homes defend
while plotting all the while for dragon-gold
the dangers that we face of other kind
still have their origin in living mind

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
we watch the crowds gather in each main square
the same fierce speeches the same loud applause
it doesn't matter what the score or cause
people demand the world be made more fair
public rejection of shock and despair
combines with calls for honest rule and laws
a better government with fewer flaws
against the current all will speak and dare
the planet's small no corner's very far
from camera and from the microphone
we live in awe of these swift-changing days
no frontier no artificial bar
keeps us away from any cry or moan
we all are actors in these urgent plays
from no small action can we avert gaze
from burning man or from exploding car
we get to hear each horrid sign and groan
each day some terror makes every nerve jar
in teeming millions we are quite alone
knowing new powers lurk within the haze
from all sides we're most urgently apprised
the revolution has been televised
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
waiting for the bus in this village square
patience teaches us to know our true place
no secrets yet are hidden behind face
all things are simple in the morning air
most minor irritations seem unfair
but no one challenges our claims to space
and youth is mighty yet and full of grace
the world is big and we have time to spare
laughter is natural and many smile
to watch us waiting in the early sun
not thinking about fury yet or fuss
we have not counted yet each weary mile
nor yet grown tired of the long daily run
and this holds true i know for each of us
and so we stand there waiting for the bus
telling old jokes the short time to beguile
nothing appears here our fresh minds to stun
but easy subjects that we might discuss
or means to fill the silence for a while
that make our schooling be a source of fun
turning each negative into a plus
decades have passed and now i must recall
those days as paradise before the fall
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

the road that plunges deeper through the dark
leads to no mysteries just other homes
and in the end to where the sea just foams
on shores where fading pirates left their mark
great worlds collide in what is not a park
but where the hungry child or poet roams
or where the mermaid her soft hair now combs
and yet we went there only on a lark
earth's curve hides from us more than just a tale
of who we are or were and where we've been
the past is never past but we forget
the force of sunlight and the angry gale
the image of some awful monstruous grin
and deviate from the stern purpose set
we laughing will tramp forward on a bet
without regard for the sad empty wail
of spirits that must take it on the chin
uncertain now of just what we might get
as in the distance we see the last sail
and right behind us people bob and spin
truth comes and goes when we here speak of art
the setting sun sends arrows through the heart

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
we know of nothing that comes after dark
the sleep that lasts forever is the prize
no other world will come beneath our eyes
there's no eternal dancing in the park
breaking the silence distant dogs will bark
their presence with us here justly denies
that our existence is a pack of lies
they serve indeed to keep us to the mark
in the short hours of sunlight let us choose
the harder path the one that has its cost
that causes us to go against the grain
the other way is just to play and lose
and then to claim that we have never lost
deny the pleasure and refuse the pain
the world we've got is simple clear and plain
we can't just opt out we can't just refuse
to leave the creeks and rivers all uncrossed
we can't just wait on the promise of rain
beneath the skin we still can see the bruise
though in the summer there's no fear of frost
we wonder at the play of time and chance
but know that we have no choice but to dance

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (negative avatar)
all of our days come down to this
we aren't the ones who know the score
we're stuck with all the hate of yore
but cannot fathom why they hiss
we'd rather give the fame a miss
but know that we are at the fore
the price of power is blood and gore
the scent of money's shit and piss
we pay the cost of scrum and ruck
with gladness for they're other lives
and we would make our children glad
we'll rig the odds and call it luck
while setting forth on jaunty drives
there's no good reason to be sad
what they call justice is a passing fad
we are determined and we're not stuck
let other folk sweat and break out in hives
what we have done would drive a human mad
there's nothing in the tears of grieving wives
we're powerful and we don't give a fuck
whether you live are wounded or just die
means less to us than our most sacred lie

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
name we forget and then beyond recall
go names and numbers all the living fact
that holds us present we have never lacked
reason to think that someday we would fall
we know that one fate will receive us all
but if we speak we know we must show tact
it does not matter if our hearts are wracked
the thing to do is stand up proud and tall
we can't announce the meaning of the chime
the word must be avoided on the road
our minds must never touch a certain thought
all of our lives must be considered prime
we are so fearful of that hidden goad
and do not question just what we have wrought
we have not learned the lesson we were taught
we blame our forebears or we blame the time
but still we knew and any could forebode
the meaning of each travesty or crime
know that our bodies could not take the load
and that true justice always has been bought
a glow we notice coming through the trees
may liberate or make all hearts to freeze

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
with no concern for what is still to come
they climb the mountain seeking a new flower
those who observe from the last elven tower
have yet to calculate the aggregate sum
of human miseries that leave mortals numb
but cannot be relieved through elven power
beasts that from immortal beings cower
are not by men and women rendered glum
still there's a tale that hasn't long been heard
about the one who dreamt a golden thread
from plain to mountain in a simple line
that would have been unmade by a harsh word
but frightened beings ominous and dread
to creep back under the dark worried pine
until their master could some strength refine
and to a greater action each monster spurred
out of a light made more of dark than red
above their heads the sable-coloured bird
cawed once but still no goblin ever stirred
while our brave heroes drank the summer wine
we know the story but we will not here wait
instead we hurry to praise and applaud the great


fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

March 2015

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