Ballade of dreams

There's naught so good as having one last drink
before the short march to the nice warm bed,
enough to make you stop a while and think
of how the whole process should make you dread,
as every time on pillow you set your head
you've no idea what will happen when you sleep
Still, your eyes are heavier than rooftop lead
so off to dreamland you go, and fall in deep.

And no sooner than into warm sleep you sink
than into life pop many you've known dead,
their doings seem to have you on the brink
of throwing off the warmth of your bedspread
and freezing as in the dream you've fled
from one evil to another faster than a bleep.
Your body wakes, your eyes are heavy and red,
so off to dreamland you go, and fall in deep.

The dream at once takes you to a pool of ink
from which arises a large disembodied head,
which expands then vanishes in a swift eyeblink.
You're somewhere you know quite well you think,
but there's no originality, everything's a retread,
and as your body turns and tosses upon the bed
you wake and find yourself counting green sheep
as wakefulness once again you seek to shed,
so off to dreamland you go, and fall in deep.

Again you dream, and as you dream you swink
harder than at work that keeps you fed;
the scenery changes in ways that do not link
each with the other so that they stay in sync.
Instead the characters seem somehow to dread
that they'll be laughed at inside your own head,
as they each become like smoke hard to keep
in place, but each carrying a sort of dread,
so off to dreamland you go, and fall in deep.

Prince, as you lie awake in your warm bed,
do not attribute all these thoughts to drink;
we know that waking brings feelings of dread,
so off to dreamland you go, and fall in deep.

boxing day 2006

no warmth today but not either bitter cold
there was no snow although it was announced
the morning's lacking in true solar gold
but the old demon has we know been trounced
up the hill we know now will climb the sun
in six long months to reach its summer peak
but for this moment the year is almost done
and we look towards the new one next week
beyond the grey we know the sun still shines
the times will change and once again we'll see
the fresh leaves fresh shoots and the new vines
and body and soul will once again be free
winter has its value we have not the least doubt
but wish each year that it could be left out

(no subject)

The story begins, or so we've been often told,
with efforts to turn old wisdom into common sense;
so Heraclitus, Confucius, Qoheleth all were bold
to tell us how to behave without the least pretense.
Yet they found their disciples somewhat dense,
who took their sayings as wise as well as true,
who didn't get the message, nor the immense
significance that they sought speech to imbue.

When it continues, the trail's no longer cold
for many have passed what was the border fence;
Plato, Aristotle, Xunzi, Master Meng the very old,
each of them sought to make a large difference
and bring new concepts to traditional sense.
Each now receives the respect that they were due
when living, for we now see the intense
significance that they sought speech to imbue.

But others taught things that were still more bold,
showed ways that led to other forms of sense,
and taught us that the new is as clear as the old.
Brhaspati, Zhuangzi, Epicurus, and hence
we tear the veil from all forms of pretense,
and know that there are better things yet to do.
For each thinker still has power to dispense
significance that they sought speech to imbue.

Prince, we know that you have sought to fence
in philosophy that we all know to be true,
but still you cannot dismiss as mere nonsense
significance that they sought speech to imbue.

the spirit of past decembers

blossoms coming from far warmer places
sit on our table with their enriching grace
bringing with them more than a simple trace
of the sunshine that we want upon our faces
the joy of summer that this winter graces
beyond this moment far beyond this place
we know the sun is warming a merry face
as through the sky it takes its daily paces
but here it's winter grey and wet and chill
yet we are buoyed by thought of warmer climes
and sunshine on the fresh december flowers
where on the hot lowland and the cooler hill
we longed for other more interesting times
and did not think those then our finest hours

the problem with nostalgia

as winter slowly brings us to our knees
as metaphor if not in actual fact
we do not think of all the things we lacked
long years ago back in the west indies
our minds roam freely to those sunlit seas
with figueroa we seek the flower tacked
to the lush tree and as we're daily packed
in metro train forgetting as in we squeeze
the harder times we recall only the ease
of walking on those warm december days
and not the hardships nor the myriad pains
of having the hardest of masters to please
nor of the sun's harsh and blistering rays
we think only of the light and the warm rains

The sacred number 419

You're been chosen with very good reason
to act as conduit for a nice pile of cash.
You need do nothing dangerous or flash,
merely reflect that this is the right season
for it; some banks have put the squeeze on
you for spending that was somewhat rash.
So you know that this very desirable stash
of Nigerian funds is yours for a small treason.
If you believe this, I'll just need to know
your back account, your password, and all that;
you'll soon be rolling in a glorious pile.
Of course, you realise, you might have to go
to Lagos, but you can get there in nothing flat;
you might, however, stay there a long while.