war without end amen

the oldest furies still say they remember
the days when things were short and the bombs fell
when fires of hope had burned down to an ember
and life was seen as brief escapes from hell
the story does not change although the tools
are different horses in this day and age
those who deny comparisons are simply fools
the only proper response to this is outrage
the victims are the same white brown or black
the killers are the same despite their uniform
in every case the same result we see a lack
of every human virtue of every civil norm
the thing that matters we've been always told
is that justice does not realise when its been sold

working today

no hot sun today
instead bright cold piercing light
dark would be warmer

winter is coming
message of each falling leaf
no sign of spring yet

thoughts while grading

i want the facts and what they seem to mean
not what the student makes up on the go
the truth reality i know it's never fully clean
but learning involves having things you know
instead i get some half-digested tales
informing me of things that are not real
my head shakes and the heart within me quails
they'd tremble if they could know just how i feel
i have to laugh to hold back all the tears
to keep me within the boundaries of the sane
it seems that all my efforts through the years
have only served to irritate my brain
there seems to be no measure i can take
that will force this stupidity to brake

the hardest part of the job

the day is not long but the work is there
writing affords a valuable distraction
the pile grows but the ending is not clear

i had not thought that one day i would dare
to overcome knowledge's contraction
the day is not long but the work is there

i confront each essay seek to find it's bare
essence the deepest innermost compaction
the pile grows but the ending is not clear

not for me now the pleasures of the sheer
sense of discovery instead there is redaction
the day is not long but the work is there

these students all have the same wish to share
their half-baked concepts of party and of faction
the pile grows but the ending is not clear

yet as i read and mark there's one thing i'm aware
that drives my very purpose and my action
they day is not long but the work is there
the pile grows but the ending is not clear

ignorance breaks strength

it isn't what we learn but what we don't
the holes in what we think we have to know
the things we have to do the things we won't
because our thoughts have just become too slow
experience teaches us but not all things
can be learned in that most direct way
the intellect's a power itself with wings
that open at the start and end of day
the twilight may be when we turn to thought
but also when our eyes decline in power
we may have done almost all the things we ought
but that's a question for a brighter hour
both indolence and effort that's the range
that bounds the possibilities for change

the owl that flies

through isonomic suffrage or sortition
we constitute our image as a folk
rejecting both tyranny and partition
we'll subjugate ourselves to our own yoke
within the shade of the old mother tree
we'll take the oaths that bind us all as one
with rousseau we'll force each other to be free
and hold that by this our new state's begun
the problem comes when we remove the veil
and find ourselves in all respects unequal
we don't consider that we've told this tale
in expectation that there'll be no sequel
still we consider that we've done our best
because we did not faint or falter at the test

and we are not saved

each year has turnings everyone knows that
but what they are is different in each place
the seasons aren't the same nor is the flat
weight of change visible on each one's face
prevaricators liars cheats and thieves
alike feel cold and get wet in the rain
even the worst villain in real life grieves
even the darkest monster feels some strain
the coming of the cold time feels like death
and every year some give things up and die
the sharpness of the wind takes away breath
and ices up our tears whenever we cry
but who's the hero who's the villain here
we ask and softly weep into our beer

when troubles come

the chances have been good for wary men
to make their piles and profit from the dead
not for them concern about times when
dreams rise up in the night with sights of dread
nor for the dead trapped in a burning pen
the conscience shrivels in a wealthy head
and those who pile the faggots for the fire
are absent when the last martyrs expire

those who have taken the magician's gold
believe that they've acquired a precious thing
not realising that the game's been sold
and they are bound in service to the king
until the morning when though cruel and bold
they scream as they fall in the fiery ring
for kings are not known for their gratitude
and do not care if you take that attitude

how many dead our sovereign does not care
he's gone upon his travels to see how
the subjects in the distant lands do fare
and how much milk will give the golden cow
expecting that the angered will not dare
to risk the furrowing of his noble brow
besides he thinks we will not institute
proceedings to show that he's a brute

the devil's in the details so they say
and getting out is not like getting in
we can't wish all the difficulties away
or claim that peace and truth are masks of sin
we think that when we enter in the fray
it means that automatic we will win
and not that the old ship of state will sink
ponderous and titanic in the drink

for war's a tough and unpredictable sport
not to be entered lightly with a smile
it's not a game of the genteeler sort
to play on sunny afternoons a while
it's center is a morass in which once caught
each step you take becomes malign and vile
and monstrous horrors come not single spies
but in a huge batallion of smug lies