(no subject)

we ask the world to hold fast for our ease
it doesn't and we shrug and even smile
life laughs at us the minx the little tease
we do our best to fill our little while
the changes come we first applaud and greet
then realise the ultimate thing they mean
we see ahead of us the final climbing street
quicky or slowly on its path we'll be seen
then after we'll have nothing here to keep
us from going where all others have gone
time to lie down for the eternal sleep
and take no account for all that's lost or won
in this small space with only little time
to bow the head in silence is the crime

the end of fiction

a story once released has its own wings
it soars and dives first swiftly and then slow
it travels to places the author dares not go
when to the winds his little tale he flings
announcing in a voice that swells and rings
that what is is and what is so is so
the power and magic in the story flow
telling of life love death and stranger things
the shaping and the making both are rough
but in the telling things become quite clear
and clearer still when letters are on page
to reader and to hearer there's not enough
we wish the tale to go on year by year
and when it ends we feel a sort of rage

(no subject)

the mastery we seek's no simple thing
its power and length are not of short duration
but held aloft by mighty strength of wing
resisting the great force of gravitation
the long perspective the sharp orbital view
a false omnipotence produced by height
the desire for these things is not really new
but dreamt of in long watches of the night
a thing of magic must this once have seemed
this power to look down from the highest sky
not long ago our forebears would have deemed
anyone who claimed to do so just to lie
but now we look and curse the horrid fate
that maps and pictures are not up to date

so long a journey

when the moon is a thin fingernail in sky
night seems a darker denser space of time
the cold with more intensity seems to rime
windows and leaves and calling us to die
the walker in this night's furtive as a spy
the street seems into deeper dark to climb
the ice forms on the puddles a thin slime
that any hope's at road's end seems a lie
the waiting's harder on such a dark night
illumination's but an illusory sign of hope
at the walk's end the shelter will be rough
no chance that at the coming of the light
we'll be well up the long and tiring slope
at least in day the path will seem less tough

Almost done for the year

The job's endless, it's not just standing up in class
and talking, or getting the students to speak,
and bob's yer uncle. Preparation's a huge mass
of tasks that would, I'm sure, daunt strong and weak.
I've got each class to prep, get the ideas across,
I've got syllabi to write, lesson plans to make;
here I must separate true metal from the dross
and give my best for ungrateful others' sake.
And when the day is done, I've still got more to do,
essays to read, multi-guess quizzes to mark;
students think of nothing but getting through,
but I'm here reading their words well into dark.
To learn and think and write, the price's to teach,
and hope that some achievement's within reach.

postlude

in the end what matters is that we chose
when all things were in play to do one deed
not for our pleasure and far less out of need
but as the best and fairest option that arose
before the doors of choice would come to close
that which might have been a fragile reed
might turn out to be a stout staff when freed
and would in the end be better i suppose
raising dumb chance to simple serene choice
is not the easiest task but when we're done
it will not matter how we the thing explain
as long as we say something in clear voice
proclaim that with our act the battle's won
and never mention that all's to do again

reality

no truth in fractions even less in wholes
inherent in the thing's another fact
beyond the entity there's also the act
it isn't things that matter it's their roles
what's inert contains nothing that consoles
but motion whatever requires exact
timing what goes beyond the tract
almost as if the things we make have souls
seeing the process leads to a mistake
forgetting that abstractions never all
to apprehend the facts is more than we
can do unless we're ready at last to forsake
subjective hopes and beauty's siren call
with no illusions we can then be free

Classical political theory

Confucius says the upright man must seal
the example of right action for the rest;
Plato, for his part, says that the test
is who sees what is shadow and what's real.
Mencius he tells us that all humans feel
compassion for the weak, not just the best;
Aristotle, with what seems to be much zest,
shows how to stop the turning of the wheel.
Cicero takes Plato's words, Aristotle's scheme,
to show that law reflects the higher things;
he wants to show us all that there's some hope.
Han Fei, for his part, has a different theme:
the law must clip ambitious creatures' wings,
and for the evil the best cure is rope.