reading on the train

the letters and the numbers pass me by
i'm lost in thought in every magic book
i have to force myself to think and look
minutes and seconds past me simply fly
we're in the tunnel there is no more sky
seductive words have got me on the hook
clever shepherds with a long-armed crook
it takes huge effort yet i've got to try
to rise and change trains at the proper station
where i've got more to travel and to read
and from the mundane world i'm briefly taken
and yet though normal be my situation
for those few moments from this life i'm freed
until by stern reality my peace is shaken

calm winter day

the sun shines mildly on this winter noon
my mind needs a new focus at this hour
spring's prompt arrival would be a great boon

today the sun's a large pale glowing balloon
the clouds are thin and don't promise a shower
the sun shines mildly on this winter noon

there's even light promised for afternoon
the bell rings out loudly from distant tower
spring's prompt arrival would be a great boon

the postman's been i'll get the letters soon
just as the taste of my work becomes sour
the sun shines mildly on this winter noon

red berries the proud hollies' twigs festoon
staying bright when daylight seems to glower
spring's prompt arrival would be a great boon

in february the soul sighs and longs for june
there is no substitute for light on flower
the sun shines mildly on this winter noon
spring's prompt arrival would be a great boon

the roots of the sea

the ship that sailed on that forgotten day
bore human bodies which had lost their names
they would not find again their cherished way
to places where they played their childhood games
to the hearth fires with their familiar flames
instead they'd find a new and different land
where their lives would need to have new aims
their job was to survive and become grand

the sun that set on that swift-darkening bay
deprived them of their old familiar claims
those left behind no hint of hope betray
instead with anger they deny their shames
as shifty memory the old truth maims
they'd say that we could never understand
that ties of blood should overcome all blames
their job was to survive and become grand

we now who over this small globe must stray
wish to ignore what history proclaims
that treason though despicable in its way
has forced each of us to redefine our aims
remake our stories in their proper frames
accept the hope that never traitor planned
and make the whole world over in their names
their job was to survive and become grand

prince though the story-tellers make their claims
reality will make their tales seem bland
the rules of history are more than games
their job was to survive and become grand

inside there's sunshine

the broad river is a dark dark worm crawling
over the grey-green land under the heavy cloud
we want to be quiet but here all things are loud
we're warned to behave or be sent home bawling
the rain that's promised will so soon be falling
up here we run backs bent not yet so proud
as to refuse the sacks under which we're bowed
but far from here we'll find both place and calling
in the end we can't return there's no secure location
except in the heart and that will pall and fade
we'll face each pain for us there's no balm given
to soothe our bodies to warm us in our station
within each soul there's hope for help and aid
and to our separate makings we've been driven

so there we were

we don't recall the faces and the names
not for us memory of home or school
time's river broadens into a still pool
beside the water one loudly declaims
prophetic words speaking of clear aims
outflow moves quite slowly as a rule
there are no falls no force to use as tool
to power lives and generate false flames
we live in hope there'll be another chance
to say the words and make them into vows
to be kept whole and true in time's despite
there'll be another party and a dance
old spirits we'll refresh and then arouse
in recollection of now-vanished might

the thief of baghdad

what words we have lack meaning and true force
there's nothing that can quite meet with the case
the truth can shove itself right in each face
but we won't be diverted from the chosen course
the signals are encoded a kind of sacred morse
we've got to fit ourselves into the proper space
to claim our knowledge is an especial grace
and that we follow the mighty hero on white horse
still the words don't tell us half of what we need
what we've been told so sadly is just a plain lie
there's nothing here that's left to show the way
yet we're supposed to follow a straight road
the real estate we were promised is clear sky
it disappears entirely at the end of day
what we've got left seems swiftly to erode