the theoretical life

inside empty space
beyond empty space nothing
inside outside same

way up way down same
herakleitos knew
simple truth is right

river never same
wittgenstein does not tell us
what is not the case

all that is matters
not in any larger sense
only in our own

miracle bird or golden handiwork

no ghost or sprite comes here but in our dreams
in those we struggle with our dark recall
the messages that come are our new memes

the sun illuminates us now with its bright beams
we look outside for the last leaves to fall
no ghost or sprite comes here but in our dreams

on cars and windows sharply the sun gleams
but darkness hangs on long within the hall
the messages that come are our new memes

we know that what exists is never what it seems
the brightest gift with long use comes to pall
no ghost or sprite comes here but in our dreams

in spite of outer calm our inner voice still screams
but no one hears nor will regard its call
the messages that come are our new memes

the light of morning always brightly streams
through our long windows making night seem small
no ghost or sprite comes here but in our dreams
the messages that come are our new memes

too long a sacrifice

you read the essays and aloud you groan
the earnest efforts and the failed attempts
your heart seems all at once turned to a stone
but something in your mind at last pre-empts
your anger and annoyance at the lot
the thought that went into the best essays
just balances the ones that you could not
tolerate on the kindest and best of days
the job's got perks including that you learn
both how to teach and how to understand
the things that you know that you burn
to bring to heel beneath your supple hand
the price you pay is sometimes really hard
but still you labour onward yard by yard

approaching winter

odour of honey
the afternoon is passing
autumn declining

away north snowfall
announces winter's presence
before calendar

cloudy but warmer
our weather gives us something
redolent of spring

the map is not the place

life passes in our search for some small pleasure
we get it at a price and the amount we pay
is never received back in due and proper measure
the tolls extract our fortunes on the way
uphill and down the path of life meanders
there's no escape from travails of the trip
though each of us in our own manner wanders
we never seem our rightful route to grip
the intentions and the plans are nothing certain
we're not assured of water in the wells
the rain that comes upon us like a curtain
hides each from each as though we were in cells
the journey's its own purpose we are told
but always others bear away the gold

no through road

the thickness of the fog a heavy cloud
i cannot find the true signs of the road
step by step i carry myself as a load
the silence heavy each footfall is loud
in the middle of a city there's no crowd
each person's hiding in their own abode
the signal wasn't in any secret code
the messenger was neither stiff nor proud
i move ahead guided by light and hope
not knowing if i'll be struck down on the way
each faltering step takes me away from home
the road is even there's hardly any slope
it would be a simple thing in middle day
but then i'd have no easy chance to roam

The Way of the Critic

With care, we unravel each thread of a tale
to see what's underneath or who makes hay,
but that's to break it, not the finest way
to bring the flock of words to final sale
or wrap the whole thing up in a neat bale.
But that's the angle we take every day
to make the statue out of common clay,
and if we don't to honourably fail.
With care, we judge ourselves the better men
because we've given nature herself no cause
to crush our spirits or destroy our lives;
yet when we face realities, we will not then
subject ourselves to any rules or laws,
but flee the demons loosed from out their hives.

a thousand oracular ducks

we go for learning to the newest source
the oracle of a thousand quacking fowl
the ducks who speak wiser than any owl
and congregate on every watercourse
the wisest monk hiding beneath his cowl
or savvy boy scout schooled by baden-powell
has no more sense that ordinary horse
the birds though overwhelm the sense
give no option to us but now to hearken
to their wise redes given in loudest voice
we crowd up to the strong barrier fence
the sky above is clearly bound to darken
but still we find we've lost all power of choice