horrible monday

a raw wet morning's not the best of starts
everything's late and every nerve is shot
a kind of desperation is our collective lot
each of us seems mired in our old parts
the raindrops sting like cold bitter darts
what we had of good purpose is forgot
instead we wonder if we've lost the plot
gloom's the liquid pumping in our hearts
this cannot last the sun must soon return
the warmth that animates our feet and bones
must fill each heart with animating light
for kinder days and softer times we yearn
keeping our feet in place on the slick stones
morning is dark but evening will be bright

in preparation again

in front of me the rising empty rows
chairs all in place the hemicycle looks
actively waiting like libraries for books
the time between classes quickly goes
and nothing of significance yet shows
now i weigh words and bait my hooks
though i will catch nor fish nor crooks
they'll all look up innocent as does
the time to think time to get in place
the words and images is here and now
something is magic in an empty room
what comes hereafter i know how to trace
the meaning of the purpose and the vow
knowledge i hope will come into full bloom

tour of duty

not enough pain to stop the work
enough for anger and jangled nerve
i'm lacking energy spirit even verve
and right now feel i'm a bit of a berk
but tired or not i'm not allowed to shirk
i've got to work i've got to go and serve
from my course i cannot ever swerve
around me settles gloomy night and mirk
not here the triumph or the sad collapse
no eager trumpets announcing doom
instead the minutes ticking one by one
i don't expect to fall or to relapse
the silence is not quite that of the tomb
i'm here until the hour then i'm done

In praise of a bookbinding

To say that your work's elegant, Abi, is just wrong,
the language does not have the word for such a treat,
the beauty of the style, and the simple, neat,
decoration that seems to be a visual song;
the form you choose to comment is not long
but neither is it decadent, foppish, nor effete,
it's a poem in itself, plain, simple and complete;
it is as clear as water, and far more strong
than any other message in the things it says
to us and to its buyer, you've found a simple means
of giving honour to an absent friend.
I mean these things, as Jonson said, to thy praise;
others may require more complex, more elaborate scenes,
but in this piece your art has found its end.