the edge of the page

the view that changes but remains the same
the angle of vision that provides the view
enough each day that we know will ensue
what fills the field will barely fit the frame
yet this is not a simple children's game
but life itself the marker of what's due
to all who stayed as well as those who flew
beyond our reach beyond the reach of shame
the sounds we hear are different every day
sufficient in themselves to please the ear
but not to wake in us the stern resolve
that should in time propel us to the way
beyond the margins of the fading year
as we around the castle would revolve

vagrant ideas

at night it seems easy words almost slide
through the mind shaping the sonnet's turn
the images that come are ones you learn
as you lie tossing there from side to side
but like the later dreams they won't abide
enough to let their shapes with new light burn
into the solid record instead with stern
features they fade as each new concern
replaces them in thought with urgent claim
to sleepy self's attention and the night
insists upon its due and active cerebration
itself turns into dreams which are not tame
but urgent in themselves until the light
proclaims another day's fresh iteration

Crossing the road

There's nothing that conveys a sense of fear
as when you see a fast car bearing down
on you, and it becomes startlingly clear
the driver's not much better than a clown.
You may get angry, you might even frown,
but you know, with a growing sense of dread,
there's every chance that you will wind up dead.
But, as in every chance, what seems to count
is what you think, what's inside your small head;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

What you find at such times you cannot bear,
is thoughts about whether you hang or drown;
you're rooted to the spot, you cannot tear
yourself away; your trousers will turn brown
and you'll express yourself with vulgar noun,
and all of life will hang on by a thread.
You'd give up every particle of street cred
if you could somehow this terror surmount.
But nothing works, you're paralysed by dread;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

The vehicle, with luck, will halt in its career;
the driver might have learned his art in town.
Still, even as you express thanks you jeer
at someone who deserves a dunce's crown,
who lacks, indeed, any type of renown.
What you demand is that he pay you bread,
or you'll be calling the police instead.
And he'd better do this before you count
to ten, and call down anger on his head;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

Austin Princess, you have gone on ahead
the news and information for to spread.
This fool of money's a veritable fount.
His mind is stone, his foot is made of lead;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

youth

in the end it matters what you do
not who you are or where you went
to school or work nor what your bent
was or whether you had flu
that year or just went through
puberty and with all good intent
failed to make your gains all permanent
because back then you just had no clue
the margin for error gets smaller
as the years accumulate and grow
ever shorter while the workload
seems ever steeper and taller
and spirits never climb above the low
but still the feet continue on the road

revolutionary duty

you are supposed to put both heat and light
into each poem make each one a living sign
of what you are part human part divine
ancestry and heritage must be in all you write
you must repay the anger hate and spite
that have been given all along the line
must make your readers pay the complete fine
for all the things that have been done and said
for centuries by those who laughed and sneered
at all who went before and sought fresh life
and now that they're forgotten and quite dead
you must repay those who stood and jeered
by showing them the proper price of strife

one thing i can see

poverty means always knowing the price
of each essential having each day to choose
between harsh needs knowing that to lose
one day of work means nothing at all nice
there is no flavour to this bowl of rice
earned after what seems unlimited abuse
not even death provides a fair excuse
the corporate soul's a solid lump of ice
what keeps you going isn't very much
what keeps you begging is just simple need
the hope is that one day struggle will cease
meanwhile you try a truly human touch
knowing that you've got other mouths to feed
and hoping for justice as well as peace

(no subject)

we must have courage in these troubled times
beard our islamist enemy in his noisome den
make him account for all his loathsome crimes
ensure he's got no chance to spread his slimes
threaten to make all of his cities glow
and celebrate his fall with jingling rhymes
i'm all for battle as long as i don't go

i know that victory can be as sour as limes
but that won't mean that we can't win again
just as the pump a little water primes
we have to take the lumps of life sometimes
that's just the nature of the vicious flow
none of our actions will qualify as crimes
i'm all for battle as long as i don't go

we make no errors we'll face no hard times
we'll bear adversity like stubborn men
we soon will hear the victory bell's chimes
as our success higher and higher climbs
and we overcome the evil so-and-so
the cost will be some other fellow's dimes
i'm all for battle as long as i don't go

prince george you may not remember when
you had a change to grapple with the foe
you vanished like a very fearful hen
i'm all for battle as long as i don't go