a cloudy saturday

this the sort of day to stay all snug in bed
but duty calls and there's so much to do
no time to stop and just admire the view
there's much to do once we've all been fed
and not just earning of our daily bread
there's preparation for entry to the new
so much to finish before the day is through
it seems enough to overwhelm one's head
still we believe the whole thing is worthwhile
though duty is a beast upon our backs
we nonetheless will make each step our own
the end result should bring forth a big smile
though getting there will all our efforts tax
it isn't as if we were marching to the unknown

sources of happiness

we'll find a way our hearts to please
with work and love and other joys
and sandwiches of toasted cheese

days come and go there is no ease
it seems that all we have are toys
we'll find a way our hearts to please

the whole thing seems to be a wheeze
we celebrate the girls and boys
and sandwiches of toasted cheese

avoiding here all slime and sleaze
there's nothing here that us annoys
we'll find a way our hearts to please

we want our drinks to cool or freeze
we've time to make some joyous noise
and sandwiches of toasted cheese

we're happy for the gentle breeze
that helps us keep our equipoise
we'll find a way out hearts to please
and sandwiches of toasted cheese

the schedule matters that is all we know

in no way can we devise a working trap
to hold in place the life that now is lost
there's too much done at such great cost
we can't expect things to fall into our lap
not if we want something simple to cap
the efforts we made or when we tossed
the golden coin and saw all turn to frost
the world is not symbolised by the map
now if we find a way to name each pace
from birth till now we'd know it for a lie
we'd see the rank confusion in each face
and wait for all the hubbub down to die
all that is known is simple clear and plain
it's far too late to catch the morning train

long working day

there's not much left to say so silence sits
about our heads like a warm loving smoke
the music doesn't disturb it seems to soak
into the beigy walls in starts and little fits
the tunes are old another century's hits
written beneath the shade of ash and oak
no thorns lurk here to tear or jab or poke
the tunes and silence stimulate our wits
not for this night is graceless will or power
the calm that rules here has a deeper source
nothing here can break the lovely night
in time we hope to see the valley flower
know that the stream is in its proper course
and that we stand for what is truly right

empathetic villanelle

Behind each mask there lurks an injured soul,
we do not note or see it while we pass,
hurt eyes observe us, vacant as a whole.

Nothing becomes us like our daily role
in the human drama,we all show our class;
behind each mask there lurks an injured soul.

Surviving the day, that's our normal goal,
not showing that we're brittler than glass;
hurt eyes observe us, vacant as a whole.

Our hearts have been entombed at the  south pole
and we've been bound into a solid mass;
behind each mask there lurks an injured soul.

What pain we feel, burns inside like a coal
that's solid though it seems just like a gas;
hurt eyes observe us, vacant as a whole.

Where once was heart, now there is just a hole,
what once was gold now seems like cheapest brass.
Behind each mask there lurks an injured soul;
hurt eyes observe us, vacant as a whole.