the inner turn

there's green outside forcing its heady way
out of the earth winter has gone and spring
arrives not yet on the calendar but in living
plants and from the shallow earth no clay
holds down the roots there is a little spray
of water to encourage growth the thing
we most desire to see is life in fullest seeming
we long to see the return of human day
winter imprisons us we bow beneath its weight
our eyes are focused on the sullen earth
the blue of sky deceives us and we hate
to see the puffy clouds which give no birth
to growth and harmony but simply taunt
our thoughts with the image of a ghastly haunt

backwards and upwards

we go to the edge to the point where the hill
falls away steeply where the bamboo stand
marks the lowest point of our own land
below we see the path continue but our will
does not move us onward we know that still
above us is enough that's right to hand
far more than we can handle and no bland
instruction will convince that we have skill
to do the things that we have learned to do
with all the deftness that we have been shown
our worth is constantly defined as naught
there is a hope that we might muddle through
providing that we hold fast to what's known
and do not spend our time in idle thought

delayed sunrise

shape of the morning the trees blocking the sun
keep us in deepest shadow for some extra hours
meanwhile we face the rain that cleans and scours
both hills and hearts and tells us what's not done
we've turned our backs on fortune and we'll shun
what's modern fresh and new and if one glowers
we'll take that as a sign that they've got no powers
that would control us or tell us that we've done
what should not have been done and that we must
accept a different rule and change our old laws
for those that others have long tested and refined
we're not convinced that our ways are now dust
like all the old things that have shown their flaws
but that's a matter about which we don't mind

what we're obliged to

a dream of light and magic leads to day
work is what we face when we have risen
between duty and pleasure lies our way

life demands from us both work and play
to choose one alone is to choose prison
a dream of light and magic leads to day

we've had a lot to do and much more to say
work of our hands gives shape to our vision
between duty and pleasure lies our way

there are no dragons or krakens left to slay
but still we have to make a true decision
a dream of light and magic leads to day

without our care the cords of worth will fray
our sole inheritance would be derision
between duty and pleasure lies our way

the winds of time our makings will not sway
we've made the proper and supreme provision
a dream of light and magic leads to day
between duty and pleasure lies our way

one sort of vision

when we have slain the dragon it revives
not as itself but in our hearts as its dark blood
flows through the crevices of our dark lives

what we have learned is of the fire that drives
all living things before it destroying crud
when we have slain the dragon it revives

what in our minds of kindness that survives
is drowned out as the hot draconic flood
flows through the crevices of our dark lives

news of our victory as soon as it arrives
lands on the threshold with a weary thud
when we have slain the dragon it revives

long time we learned to fear the angry knives
which scorn our bodies left there as the mud
flows through the crevices of our dark lives

the beast that we thought dead in us now thrives
the branch that we thought withered now has buds
when we have slain the dragon it revives
flows through the crevices of our dark lives

and after us who cares

what we have sought is what is not allowed
we've cultivated our worst habits and been glad
that we have managed to stay sane not mad
although we constantly require love of the crowd
we've been able to appear humble not too proud
the need for us is much more than a simple fad
we've taken more than others might have had
and kept our heads unbloody although bowed
so much we want so much is there yet to obtain
we've kept ourselves impure in thought and deed
the better to achieve our deepest dark desire
no matter that our profit brings your pain
no matter that you're left with lack and need
what matters is we're singing with the choir

a kind of history i suppose

what we have not remembered of the past
will rise to haunt us if we don't watch out
the lines that we've into the slow stream cast

won't catch for us the perch or even trout
the fish we've caught aren't worth a dry fig
we've got no reason to dance or even shout

what we do and the way that we will rig
our persons out for the renewed attempt
in the long run it won't seem quite so big

as it does to us nor will its form preempt
our other plans the ones which have no hope
of doing more than exciting your contempt

so what we won't swing by our own rope
our relevance has been assessed and our
desire for valuation won't let us yet cope

with all the limits you've set on our power
simply by being other than we seem
to our own minds and that's a chilly shower

on all that we've desired and on each dream
that allows us to work through the dull day
we'll drink our tea or coffee without cream

but we won't be delayed or kept away
from that which guards our hearts from pain
we have to go but most desire to stay

at least we've got some shelter from the rain
which marks the ground and creates the rill
that grooves the ground leading to the plain

we look up and see only the next low hill
and there's no difference there as a whole
we have frustrated even our own will

and all that's left is this once-glowing coal

the earth will move one day

the truth that's spoken into the vast calm
that's heard only by those with open hearts
that keeps itself alive without those arts
cultivated by those keep their precious balm
only for themselves whose every psalm
proclaims them the only folk of active parts
that truth withstands even the sharpest darts
and without the least effort bears the palm
still does it matter if no one has yet heard
of what did happen and of what was done
the matter's not a simple one of acts and deeds
what's most important is who has the word
whether things were carried out in open sun
and what was done to meet the human needs

(no subject)

If there's a way we can describe this age
it won't be simple, direct, plain, or even fair
to us who live through each unusual year;
we're stuck between astonisment and rage.
Each of us wonders, perhaps, at this stage
why we should be amazed, or even care
about the things that lead to anger and despair
when we know, in the end, it's just a page
of history. And like every other, never sane
in any sense we give that too-short word.
The season that we live in is far too short
for us to judge it, we cannot yet see plain,
nor do we have the vantage of that bird
which takes our messages to those we court.

becoming the mass

the sorrow we declare can still be real
if there's no plain connection just a shared
being in place and yet one who has cared
will not for that reason even think to deal
in any unjust way nor even to conceal
what they believe of those who have fared
into the public seas those who once dared
to shout to the very heavens their appeal
now what we see is not the false but true
feeling-together that requires a special space
where all who know can bow and wail and weep
nothing they've done they now will ever rue
they have been found in every private place
and their earnest tears just will not keep

the only knowledge

the memory of time is in my eyes
it crawls over my brain like a louse
it fills every corner of this house
who says otherwise just plain lies
we've come beyond stables and sties
knowledge enough will fill a mouse
but not to make it cheer or carouse
we feed ourselves on empty pies
no need to mention what came first
the knowledge or the end of pain
it never matters at the very end
we could assume only the worst
but that will be after the long rain
and much we see will thereon depend

require another voice

not understanding
future means we will botch it
the past counts far less

it will never go
but we cannot visit there
tomorrow will come

we cannot change that
even through being absent
we are not central

the words will alter
if we don't change we will die
so we need to dance

to each new measure
even if our feet are slow
still we must tread them

time leaves wounds open
if the healer does not come
there is no magic

rival ideas will
always challenge our wisdom
life will demand it

accept the moment
what comes next won't be evil
unless we wish it