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)


underneath a blue mahoe tree
lay the red petals of a flower
the ridge above us did not tower
we walked uphill to view the sea

a solemn moment or an hour
to think and then to sip our tea
no auguries would then agree
we did not know we had the power

we thought ourselves happy and free
a simple joy to take a shower
ignoring then the old man's glower
we understood what we could see

in the high woods we made a bower
out of the light and in the lee
from paradise we sought to flee
with native sense for only dower

allow us each with aching heart
to name the place with proper art

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 no matter what is on the drum
we aren't the ones to pay the bill
we let the others eat their fill
and praise the ones who chose to come

we aren't the only ones in sum
to sing and dance beneath the hill
while water bubbles down the rill
and praise the ones who chose to come

we listen for the insects' hum
around the juice that's for the still
we want to drink rather than kill
and praise the ones who chose to come

we will not leave the deaf or dumb
their best hope is to heed our will
we'll leave to others spiv and shill
and praise the ones who chose to come

we wait for you to bring the rum
with elbows on the windowsill
we watched you take the cane to mill
and praise the ones who chose to come
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
we find ourselves at north wind's back
not one of us on honest track
beyond our hands the sail is slack
becalmed we face a new attack

a kind of flower awaits the sun
we let the night complete its run
days full of light and work we shun
we have to speak and then we're done

a hint of winter in the breeze
dread hangs in shadow of the trees
the glass is drunk down to the lees
beings arrive our hearts to freeze

rend us before we have to pack
the phaser is not set on stun
and cold's not measured in degrees
no one may hear the final chime


fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)

March 2015

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