saving the sum of things

the flag that's flown tells only half the tale
behind it march a motley mass of men
summoned to sore struggle yet again
all are expected to be fully fit to fail
yet gathered against the growing gale
presented here with all the power of pen
each will devour all devils in their den
and then abscond to consume ample ale
now roots are hard and gnarly we all know
but without them the tree is bound to fall
so with the ones who hold the tale together
on their hard feet towards the goal they go
we're proud to see them here standing tall
for us they gladly work in every weather

engage

the platonic forms are just not there
reality is what we all have made
there are no beings of the upper air

there's no perfect forming of a square
under the sun is only light and shade
the platonic forms are just not there

thinking about it drives you spare
all you have to do is make the grade
there are no beings of the upper air

the shadows on the wall are not a snare
all that is done will one day come to fade
the platonic forms are just not there

life is enough to make the holy swear
but everything we have will be arrayed
there are no beings of the upper air

what matters in the end is that we dare
all things that might make us afraid
the platonic forms are just not there
there are no beings of the upper air

the play's the thing

we love and fear the shiny and the new
to be an adult is to know what weighs
and what can be put off for better days
there's so much we're not allowed to do
and much that we must if we but knew
what role we've been given in the plays
that make up life and what are the ways
to bring our own performance into view
then we'd take up the better dual roles
actor and critic wrapped up into one
going backstage to see all things in clear
light and then by knowing the wholes
seeing how scenes could be better done
and hoping others will be kind and fair

For Nalo Hopkinson

You've got the gift of turning thought to tale
in ways that make the reader sit and think;
you know well there's an urge to stop and drink,
but writing problems aren't resolved by ale.
At times the thought of typing makes you quail
but you go on although you're on the brink
for things can change in a simple eyeblink
and you're too good to let yourself just fail.
Words come and go, but stories have more bite
than just the conjoined meanings, in a way
we are the tale ourselves, not just the teller;
the whole thing comes out when we sit and write,
but we can choke not knowing what to say,
still our own deep need is oft the great impeller.

one road two views

everything in the valley seems quite small
the distance diminishes both sight and sound
the miniature farmer tills his tiny bit of ground
we cannot hear his shout from here at all
drying sheets spread out on the stone wall
look like slipcovers and each white mound
stands clearly out from a bright green surround
from our standpoint there's a long way to fall
now if we climb the road a little and look west
the view is different we view the distant sea
and the large slow ship going toward the sun
it's hard to choose at asking which was best
between the ocean and the inland lea
when i'll never on that road have cause to run