december errands

winter comes in wet overnight rain
has turned to fog the roads are clogged
with holiday traffic i'm sure its blogged
somewhere that the whole season's pain
is caused by the desire for too much gain
it doesn't matter that we're dogged
by bills by fear that the long day's logged
by the watcher hidden in every brain
all i can think of in this dark is that
i've had good luck i'm loved and happy
all in all better than being underground
when all's done i'll be home in nothing flat
it doesn't matter that the weather's crappy
as long as the essentials all are sound

Social contract theory

The answer to fear, says Hobbes, is a compact
to put our human powers under a common lord
who will, in our names, bear the lawful sword
and, if he finds it needful, send us to be racked.
Locke, for his part, shows a great deal of tact:
the contract's made for us, if our ox is gored
by some dull tyrant seeking power to hoard
we've the right to overthrow him, that's a fact.
Rousseau, in French, tells us that we're in chains
though born in liberty, but that to make all right
and just the general will shall force us to be free.
Each of these theories, it seems, will tax the brains
of those who look on things with narrow sight;
in truth each is a distinct branch of the same tree.

life in monochrome

pearly grey the sky rain drips the world now soaks
as winter comes to us this day just sopping wet
in this warm place we all too soon may forget
the misery and fear when harsh cold pokes
a line of grey tired trees once dull green oaks
now starkly anonymous as any orphaned get
seem like an honour guard with stern duty set
or like old men declining yet laughing at dumb jokes
the lights diffused the absence now of stark
contrasts of light and shade reminds us that
at other seasons some things are clear and plain
we can distinguish easily between the light and dark
but now the light is thin the affect simply flat
we sit and sigh and wait for ending of the rain

a constant struggle

the vulgar fraction always rise to leer
at anything that their small minds can hate
or despise or otherwise seek to berate
with mispronounced harshly derisive jeer
but with closed ears they just refuse to hear
how their stupidities on clean minds grate
and how transparently they're seen to slate
things that their little brains could never bear
the day may come though i won't hold my breath
when there'll be need for the despised one's aid
as when things come down to the naked knife
but they'll go down each to their lonely death
although the danger could have just been stayed
had they acknowlegded there's a common life

Summarising Machiavelli

How do we make of our divisions a free state?
That's the true question, it requires a sound
basis for the republic, that is a solid ground
on which to build, since we can't leave to fate
the things that will one day make our land great.
What's needed's a smart leader who will pound
sense into all; armed visionary, he will found
a state secure, one that'll be firm and straight.
To guide the nation, navigate among the rocks,
will take no ancient, no dessicated prune
but a strong man to guide all to clear sea;
a captain bold as lion, more cunning than the fox;
a brave lad who'll laugh and drive fortune,
giving us, at last, a country strong and free.

For Stefan Jones

These are the seasons: first, gingerfrost,
when cold and tropic heat combine together;
then pancakegrow, when at last we shed leather;
after comes sugarsun, without thought of cost,
the season when all harsh restraint is tossed;
and then comes pumpkinglow with its mild weather,
the time when each leaf seems a flying feather.
We know this when our minds in time are lost.
The factories that make our time are hard
workshops in far countries where there's no
restraint from taste, or sense, or decency.
We in this strange reality are not barred
from comment, though we long for chilling snow
to take from madness its long regency.