the regular journey

each time the message changes but the intent is the same
there's nothing here that alters our opinions or desires
the whole thing's an instantiation of the greatest game

making an effort matters it suffices to banish shame
yet it makes a noted difference if one employs or fires
each time the message changes but the intent is the same

we've seen the very beginnings the first crude wooden frame
on the hard soil there are still the marks of tyres
the whole thing's an instantiation of the greatest game

the forest looms before us it looks wild but is quite tame
the sun in its daily travels reaches the branches and expires
each time the message changes but the intent is the same

in each week's journey we find change has made its claim
the action we don't see invisible to us are the wires
the whole thing's an instantiation of the greatest game

there's no intent no responsibility no one to apportion blame
we laugh and smile yet know that they were liars
each time the message changes but the intent is the same
the whole thing's an instantiation of the greatest game

rough and smooth

month after month we wait and are not shown
the thing we look for but are fed with lies
patience is counselled but we have not grown
up to forget the plain use of our eyes
the words become the nails that pierce our hands
but we're told that they're not even little tacks
the pain grasps our bodies in constricting bands
but the cause we're told is our own mental lacks
yet when we're needed then the stories alter
the blame is spread elsewhere although they know
that we've seen the papers our anger will not falter
but they hope to withstand the winds that blow
so we wait and when changes come rejoice
but still we speak our rage with honest voice

paying due attention

the sun tells us things
if we had wit to hear them
we would become real

as it is we can't
even hear the words spoken
by the kind breezes

instead we listen
to the false music coming
from our own sad hearts

AMW aetat LIII

The turning earth has come back to your day,
it would have been surprising otherwise;
to note this fact is simply for me to say
that I can't see the thing through your clear eyes.
Distance and time each soften the harsh view:
we've gone to different places, chosen other ways,
but still the signals come, the love of the new,
and smiles appear when we think of those days.
To you I send this gift, no poison in my pen,
in appreciation of when we shared our hopes;
those times have passed, they won't be here again,
our feet have walked on very different slopes.
Still, here's to you, and when you pause to think
I ask that you join me in a cheery drink.

no mystery in this

when giver and given are one and the same
we wonder how to tell the two apart
which takes which aspect and which name
are matters of a fine and subtle art
repeated questions do not make things clear
but answers change in tone with wind and weather
whether the day is rainy or set fair
the two are one but yet are not together
the gift once given cannot now return
but still remains with the original giver
at once to be united but to yearn
for fusion like the waters of a river
here is some hope and clear and bright the sun
together we're apart and yet are one