infinity

again perfection of the autumn light
the blue that watches like a divine eye
endless modestly cloud-fringed sky
the turning of the planet ends the night
shards of sunshine reflected bright
give coming winter's power the lie
declare that spring is coming by and by
providing visions that cheer and delight
the quiet of a sunday morning gives
a moment for my tired face to smile
duty will come but now i stop to look
at scenes which tell me that hope lives
that cold and fear are held off a while
and not all truth is hidden in a book

Can't get the grades in

I'm tired yet I feel like a clown,
my face it is set to a frown;
I've finished my grading
and energies fading
I find that the system is down.

I've got till tomorrow at noon,
and, I suppose, that's a boon;
for having no choice,
nor much of a voice,
I'm afraid to scream like a loon.

I thought that this might just occur,
my mind has been set all a-whirr,
for on this bright day
I'm sorry to say
my memory's down to a blur.

The process makes me want to yell;
my students can't think and can't spell.
They all want straight As,
but, minds in a daze,
they make grading feel just like hell.

I suppose that I ought to be glad
but instead I am tired and feel bad,
it could have been worse,
as under a curse,
and driven me entirely mad.

exhaustion conquers all

who are we when caught in deep mud

to demand that our helpers be tested

encouraging them to be vested

by those who love measuring blood

the noise of the great streams in flood

the waves on the water are crested

the houses on shoreline digested

the water strikes with reverberant thud

in places we see the trees floating

along with the rooftops and huts

exposing us all to the questing

by those who have no time for gloating

have ended all ifs ands or buts

and are our misfortunes digesting

the longest pause

the movement of light in air we celebrate
the flash we see out of the corner of the eye
the colours that flow quicker than any dye
the words we have to speak or iterate
nothing allows us in this place to calculate
the changing of the hues in the clear sky
birds that hop then changing minds that fly
symbols and messages these they articulate
envenomed or made sweeter in the light
the motions of the car or bike or train
moving with meanings that are not perverse
announcing here the swift coming of night
relieving all the pressures on the brain
connecting us all with the broad universe

Recollecting Marlowe

In a far country once there lived a wench,
buxom and keen, and apt for many sports,
who would, at night on the broad tavern-bench
be most kind and helpful to those out of sorts.
Her name's forgotten, so too is her trade,
for that was a long time ago, and memory's weak;
and not just memory, but other things fade
and we don't always get the things we seek.
Fornication, priests tell us, is a great sin
and we should at all costs avoid committing it;
yet when we show that we can silver win
some warm embrace we always find to fit.
I cannot get these thoughts out of my head,
but do remember now the wench is dead.