every down is an up

the sun today deceives and we know that
the wind will tear our very souls to shreds
but still it does not enter our hard heads
to remain confined in our warm cosy flat
but we've got work to do and there's no cat
to keep us pinned down snugly in our beds
we must take up again the silver threads
and do our duty without playing the brat
and yet the leaves on every evergreen
blown by the breeze are signals of a hope
we know we're going to find the thing that's ours
and that we will discover that we've been
ascending with firm tread the final slope
there's nothing here that's set beyond our powers

et in arcadia ego

each memory that comes when i must write
takes me to places that are now far away
the journeys to them take up a whole day
or else you have to fly there overnight
and spend long hours in that one single flight
with memory to sustain you on the way
remembering the sun setting in the bay
or else the odd milkiness of sky at night
nothing here till now could mean as much
as what things did when all of life was young
but what i have is what i've earned so far
still in my memory i find the ready touch
of all old hopes and words trip off the tongue
while in the east there rises a new star

at a point we arrive

each step that comes seems to give us pause
there's reason here for doubt and for derision
we question both our luck and our depth vision
and wonder whether we're effect or cause
but we make our way without need for applause
our minds are made up we've made the incision
into the matter of life itself with due precision
we've obtained the fullest approbation of the laws
never before have we gone down this road
each step's uncertain and the way is very long
but each step brings us so much nearer the goal
we do not worry about cargo for the load
is suited to our backs and we shall be strong
enough to make the whole journey seem a stroll

Scorn not the sonnet

We've not said much about the villanelle
(as rigorous as the sonnet but more hard),
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

We've many things to our good friends to tell,
we've stories to print out by foot and yard;
we've not said much about the villanelle.

When profiteering idiots make us yell
there are no limits, and no holds are barred,
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

The truth is that, regular as a church bell,
we feel the anguish when some hope is marred;
we've not said much about the villanelle.

We're angered by the lies and the hard sell,
to those who want no more than good regard,
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

And when we've driven forth the evil smell
it's time, we think, lay down our firm guard.
We've not said much about the villanelle
but, I suppose, that that is just as well.

gauging the evening

in truth as the thermometer's numbers fall
i wonder at the need to measure warm and cold
we know the feelings know when to be bold
and wear little and when to don cloak and shawl
the numbers though their digits just enthrall
the mind we want to be properly told
the measure of the day not just to scold
weather's vagaries but not to feel so small
in the face of nature's force that's the reason
we keep the numbers there and watch the change
as day succeeds day over the year's long course
even though once we know what the season
is then we know what temperatures will range
over the day but knowledge wants a source

still round the corner

we shape our minds to fit the thought of dance
our bodies move with only sluggish grace
and though the tired musicians set the pace
the end result seems an outcome of chance
the heavy feet that we have do not prance
we've grown too bored to make of it a race
and not a one of us would want to chase
a thing or person without pay in advance
there isn't much that can be done or said
for those of us who've given up the fight
the way forward's no longer there for those
who can't think clearly whose minds in dread
demand the snuffing of every honest light
they want nay they demand leading by the nose