deontology

something about the way the light comes in
disturbs my thought and irritates my brain
ideas arise then swirl about and spin
it seems to be a storm though without rain
i'm tired and sad the day seems like a waste
i've no good thoughts my mind is just a void
yet i'm still prodded by a need for greater haste
which makes me move though totally annoyed
the music does not cheer in fact it irritates
the bombast almost makes my head explode
it moves and swells and then reiterates
but seems somewhat insufficient as a goad
i'll get to work i'll get the damned things done
before the limb of earth covers the sun

old beggars under sacks

what we remember are the oddest things
a face in the audience the sharp intake of breath
the glimmer of sunlight on a bright bird's wing
the face becoming a flat mask in death
not the long moments of quite simple joy
laughter provoked by artifice or trick
the skills that artful older ones employ
to soften blows or dull the pain from kick
instead we gaze at trickles of daylight
limit our vision to the printed shade
keep our minds fixed in an internal night
reassure ourselves the sun's only delayed
the adult makes himself by act of will
the child though sees his kite above the hill

philosophers battles

we've currish rage burning within our souls
the watcher on the porch soon falls asleep
the incomplete ones each search for their wholes
what runs so swift may also run quite deep
the cynic and the stoic are each a stage
on the short journey between dark and dark
not so romantic when they're off the page
the crisp letter turns to a blurry mark
we know the truth is simple just endure
do what you can and make your life a work
ignore the cavillers and the falsely pure
we start in cloud and finish deep in murk
at least we know like angry fleeing swine
that roots can matter even more than wine

already the cannon roars

fires die and the cold of night creeps in
the light that was is only memory now
the past has been cast off into the bin
the ground is torn up by the rooting sow
frank messages arrive faster than sound
the hours are silent till the sun returns
ghosts from the imagination prowl around
there's naught but chill a bitter cold that burns
eliminate the simple and naught's left
to calculate duration through the day
the lighter objects have the greater heft
but no one may be left to speak or say
the statue stands with it's flambeau upraised
the symbol of a virtue no more praised