speaker to the dead

who speaks to break the silence is afraid
but not afraid enough to stay his tongue
those who are not bright enough die young
all of them beads strung on the long braid
the road that leads us here has a low grade
words are held back right down in the lung
not to speak now marks each as unstrung
plans will come to pass if they're well-laid
the marks of power are not the ones we see
the visible is only a small part of the whole
the message comes but only now to greet
the ones who climb right up the highest tree
who are all actors though they fake the role
each of them solitary in the crowded street

a matter of interpretation

write out the message you will get it wrong
the signals will be crossed before they leave
the whole thing's just another stupid song

the weak don't give way to the so-called strong
the oldest ones don't weep although they grieve
write out the message you will get it wrong

the distance we shall travel is not long
but journey takes from dawn till nearly eve
the whole thing's just another stupid song

the dance begins when they have hit the gong
the membership's restricted that i believe
write out the message you will get it wrong

the crowd's large enough to label it a throng
though those who name now will seem naive
the whole thing's just another stupid song

we won't accept that none of us belong
among the masters who do not deceive
write out the message you will get it wrong
the whole thing's just another stupid song

the elves departed

making the journey
requires nothing but our hope
springtime is breezy

naming the makers
travelling towards the day
buds on the branches

only the wisest
recall when we knew magic
regretting the loss

when did we allow
the world to become boring
empty of power

what makes us vapid
no longer willing to see
the light beyond light

hidden in shadow
there are no more monsters now
only the dustballs

the maw of time

not for the magic nor the hunger screaming
within the guts of every working soul
the need to fill that ever-yawning hole
a gap between the waking and the dreaming
what matters is the doing not the scheming
the need to bring the world under control
to give the powers that speak up no parole
instead we manufacture a new seeming
not enough to mark the world as ours
but to indicate what we want to find
within the spaces that we wish to make
the shining limitations of true powers
what we want hidden in the deepest mind
all that we are not tempted to forsake

not vanishing but immanent

rain is not promised but the clouds hanging low
are their own message the little bit of swamp
behind the horse-fence is more wet than damp
the afternoon moves on ponderous and slow
the lights in the house provide what little glow
there is right now we live or die by the lamp
that seals our days we understand the stamp
of the lightbearers on the space we know
so that the moment might be understood
we look out at the trees and the low sky
and wonder at the softness of this light
beyond the house there's just a tiny wood
left standing to give this sprawl the lie
and never livelier than late at night

down to the woods

to honour the monster will not suffice
to keep it at bay nor will it persuade
the creature to retire it gives no aid
to those who think of it as meek and nice
that's what gives each moment spice
though in the end all of us turn a spade
and bury our old memories in the shade
we want the fire and end up in the ice
no more of this but we will have it said
our own false measures will make the point
not enough to make the tremors die
but far enough to make us loathe the dead
to wonder who'd have the gall to anoint
the ones who will not ever hate the lie

the stolen name

look it up and down it does not change
nor will it matter if you do not act
the power to do a think is out of range

we can't be limited by the small fact
the interruptions of determined space
not of this moment is the noble tact

of those who gain or lose their face
by what they do and what they say
they do not lack the sage's grace

each of them made magic in a way
that does not mar or make them know
how the wind has blown the ocean spray

far from the raging shores will we go
not to destroy but once more to create
a matter that is neither fast nor slow

we move at what seems the proper rate
towards the things that we won't remember
the momentary mention of the date

all that remains now is a dull red ember

the first form of slow glass

the light slowly bleaches out the forms
of men and women trapped within the glass
we do not notice each day as we pass
for ignorance and apathy are our norms
we'd rather forget the long hard storms
the fury of the fighting the huge mass
of people wounded dying there's no class
to teach the photographer who performs
the magic of transferring what was light
into fixed shapes and then traps them here
where they fade slowly under the same sun
that gave them form perhaps in the night
the moon's softer refulgence lets them bear
an echo of the image before they're gone

it is better to be impetuous

the worm swallows its tail but does not die
we come back to the start and recover joy
life is its own great magic and not a toy
to play at being godly that's the great lie
the thing that we must not allow to fly
is what would give evil a chance to deploy
its charms and forces our hope to destroy
we want those wicked plots to go awry
the story must end with the good in power
the villains must not get away with lies
we will not let our heroes slip and fall
there'll be a reprieve at the final hour
we'll laud our great deliverers to the skies
and our sense of the proper will not pall

spring night

dividing moments
it happens in deep of night
fragmented habits

not for us the day
the lamp's odour overwhelms
too late the star

naming the season
springtime for all our desires
magical nightfall

tremendous effort
given to the new epoch
about to explode