measured in coffee spoons

time moves fast and slow
one happy one more than fraught
tension builds always

clocks lie every day
saying there is yet more time
but never enough

with calculation
we see a hopeful dawning
to come in few days

on dune and headland

the lion plays with the globe of the world
his teeth gleam bright in his dark mouth
his tongue inside is gleaming wet and curled
his face like his master's is looking south
the meaning of the animal you must remember
it's body gives off the sharp aura of power
the fire is hot but will burn to an ember
nothing will last beyond its own short hour
behind these walls no safety left for us
the monster sun will burn us with his mane
we're not yet ready to depart without a fuss
and all we think of now is coming pain
the beast that rules disdains all human folk
we're beasts to him deserving of our yoke

the dao of power

no farther says the king but the sea comes in
he laughs and tells his courtiers they are fools
those who flatter we know have hope to win
the power to turn the flattered into tools
for their use for their most wanted gain
to make the strength of state into their friend
to have their enemies learn the meaning of pain
to win at last their most desired good end
the king knows this and sits on throne to wait
and see which courtier will overstep the mark
and then move swiftly in the name of fate
to send the overreacher down to dark
the ruler's job is to sit calmly at the centre
guarding the throne and striking those who enter

comedy

the poem starts at night in a dark wood
we know from that a madness lurks within
such places are a long way from the good

entangled in the world of darkest sin
the writer faces allegorical sights
dragged up from his soul's old waste-bin

the story is well known we see false lights
the broken gate tells us that all hope is lost
down we all go into the endless nights

no need to tell the tale nor at what cost
the poet and his guide returned to day
past deepest hell not hot but rimed with frost

the tale is one well told or sung the lay
of a wise man who knew that when his joys
at home or exile meant the things to say

to hosts and friends had to be more than toys
for what matters that emperor and pope
would keep their quarrel up like angry boys

so did it matter in the scale that urgent hope
that saw all that he hated down in hell
but kept his feet always on upward slope

we ask this day because we face in fact
the coming once again of those old jars
in which the message can't survive intact

with the return under the signs of mars
of all that signified truth in the earliest act
and rejoiced at last when back out under stars

behind the curtain

the sacrifice once made will not be heard
there's no one at the switchboard any more
the mountaintop's deserted for no word
will cross the water now to that far shore
the heroes and the craven all are gone
the river's dry and nothing moves but dust
no matter now what games were lost or won
or who was sloppy nor of who was fussed
there are accounts that no one ever saw
the givers of orders nor the shining ghosts
that priests not gods were makers of the law
and statuary no more than wasted posts
still it's not easy to confront without any dread
the shocking fact that all the gods are dead

(no subject)

the guitar tells us or so the title says
of royal gardens on a high plateau
to get there was a journey of some days

like water moving and like grass it stays
somewhere there is a menagerie or zoo
the guitar tells us or so the title says

the fountain in the courtyard as it plays
removes from us a sense that time is blue
to get there was a journey of some days

regard the sounds they live as all decays
into vast silence as it ought to do
the guitar tells us or so the title says

the mind is focused but like water strays
down ruts and paths not open to the view
to get there was a journey of some days

in ups and downs the carriage moves and sways
at last we seem to hear the calm halloo
the guitar tells us or so the title says
to get there was a journey of some days

no fairy tale

the thing that is not there is never really quiet
it rumbles above the ceiling like a superheated rat
you shouldn't think of the items that form its diet
nor ask what happened to our lovely little cat
the trees at the bottom of the road turn into bears
they ate your cousin when he went down last night
whatever worries you whatever feeds your fears
will still be there at noon in bright daylight
the monsters that live deep inside our heads
we know they're us that they speak with our voices
that they're no more than our projected dreads
but that has nought to do with all our choices
whatever we as children learned to sup
stays with us afterwards when we're grown up