waiting for morning

simply put we have another light
the window lets us see only the dark
we want to see the sun rise to mark
not just the day but also the right
to clarity and warmth each night
leaves us cowering but now hark
the noises distant cars dogs bark
the world is once again in flight
in adjacent spaces shadow reigns
the little light does not quite reach
the corners that still hide murk
nothing here of the past remains
we might have to learn or teach
but not while all the shadows lurk

it's proverbial

we ask for nothing but the taste of hope
what comes beyond that we won't know
time we have learned is longer than a rope

if we can manage here or simply cope
with how the river flows or doesn't flow
we ask for nothing but the taste of hope

the answer's in a metaphor or trope
what makes the poem plod or really go
time we have learned is longer than a rope

if we're unlucky we'll face a long downslope
we'll go down faster than ever we can throw
we ask for nothing but the taste of hope

our fingers are made slippery with soap
we slip off those things that make us slow
time we have learned is longer than a rope

a final answer well that's beyond our scope
we doubt that we'll be filled with a true glow
we ask for nothing but the taste of hope
time we have learned is longer than a rope

the official version

there's nothing that can match the longest fall
it seems to last for hours then the ground hits
you lose the skill to walk you cannot crawl
what's left now of your vaunted sharpish wits
when you're down there not knowing how or why
you know you're not allowed to moan or cry

to be a man means you can't acknowledge pain
you tough it out you keep your smiling face
you musn't show even the smallest strain
you've got to represent both style and grace
the thing that you must show is merest skill
behind it has to lurk a more than iron will

it cannot matter that your heart's been broken
what you must show is nothing but the brave
you aren't allowed the merest tiny token
there's nothing here you'll be allowed to save
what happens when you move at a pace slow
enough for comment is that there'll be a row

the mask that you have can't simply command
it must show kindness warmth that sort of thing
it must hide it must smother the harsh demand
your voice must have the proper noble ring
you musn't let your voice or speech be tragic
your job here is to persuade us all there's magic

when light appears you've got to shrug it off
as just the normal day the ordinary change
you have to master the dismissive cough
you've got to give your scorn the proper range
as you peer out from beneath the hanging eaves
you must not comment on the fresh new leaves

what you've to say here must not be too loud
still you've got to present it as simple fact
your attitude should never be quite proud
you should seem master of restraint and tact
your job is to produce the proper patter
as for the rest it does not ever matter

equinox arriving

life persists although we make it hard
we turn our cities into hells of stone
we make it far too easy now to live alone
the doors of fellowship are locked and barred
and yet we see the grass in the backyard
return to vivify winter's barren zone
it has that power although the earth is known
not to give anything its fond regard
nothing prevents the coming of the green
the reddish buds proclaim returning life
warm breezes promise that there is still more
for us to know so many things will be seen
we'll cut the growing branches with a knife
and bind them into wreaths for the front door

lost in deep bush

we've heard the lies we hear them once again
the glibbest answers are the ones we've heard
nothing remains for us but sorrow and long pain

the mark on the map looks like a large bloodstain
the long shadow there comes from a carrion bird
we've heard the lies we hear them once again

we've seen the fall of darkest oily rain
we asked for bread and we received a turd
nothing remains for us but sorrow and long pain

the simplest kindness will go against the grain
the kingdom's ruled by masters of the absurd
we've heard the lies we hear them once again

nothing that's here is either clear or plain
our vision's like our language dull and blurred
nothing remains for us but sorrow and long pain

the injury here is to the heart and brain
the falsehood's present in the merest word
we've heard the lies we hear them once again
nothing remains for us but sorrow and long pain

Orthodox orthography

We see ourselves in separate small spaces,
others see the outline, the plain silhouette,
the liaison between hope and regret
which we have found in the most vacant spaces.
So here we are, the mule's kicked over traces
and made the cemetery into its oubliette;
we might find reason here just to forget,
but we remain in place till we have faces.
Our memories put things in bold and majuscule,
but that's a falsity, some sort of camouflage,
for what we do not know. But still we've tried
to put our words into small space, in minuscule
letters, in our best hand, yet without persiflage;
we told ourselves we'd know when others lied.

what's here doesn't answer

if when we ask for sense we get a stone
and told that this is the best form of bread
we can't expect the criminal to atone
unless his heart is filled with fear and dread
but that's not a thing for us here alone
who have been sheltered watered fed
enough that there's been a grave crime
but not enough to punish him with rhyme

on one side sea and on the other land
the beach is long and lined with cheap hotels
we dodge the gulls and the terns stand
their feet firmly placed on small clam shells
there's so much here we need to understand
while from above the fool inanely yells
we've learned that someone tells the story
in order to make sure they get the glory

we're far from sea here up two thousand feet
the trees outside are turning a pale green
i strain to hear the noises from the street
my thoughts are all about what's gone and been
the hour has not yet come when we must meet
i've learned to count the things that i have seen
movements in dust and debris here abound
i listen for the perfection of new sound

where there's a will there's usually much gold
each of us does our duty for a plain fee
we've seen the ones who don't duly get rolled
hope is not something you pluck off a tree
we have to do the things that we are told
but in our hearts we won't really agree
our course though is mapped out and worse
we can't summon the energy to curse

name the new obligation and we'll run
as fast as feet will carry us we'll be well hid
there's not a need to wonder if all's in fun
we've managed to keep our pictures off the grid
our activities will the most jaded come to stun
but we'll not be found guilty god forbid
the messages we've got will have to keep
till we've been able to obtain true sleep

stubbing the mental toe

if there's a reason for the simplest act
and we can't think of it without delay
we'd rather condemn than merely say
that we've encountered a refractory fact
we're not speaking here of lack of tact
that comes to us in the ignoble way
that we reject the coming of the day
but we saw something here that lacked
either the style or else the plenitude
of proper action as we'd understand
being the creatures of a normal habit
instead we've taken on the attitude
that our intentions are noble and grand
our courage is not that of a vile rabbit

the roughest road

the lives that once were led should not surprise
each of us knows the limits of what's desired
each knows and does not follow what's required
there's no room here for guess or for surmise
the things that we will hate now or despise
we won't get caught in nor will we be mired
in that dark bog where justice has expired
we'll see things through the clearest set of eyes
to turn or jump through the remaining hoops
shows skill perhaps but not the best of skill
there's room for change and room left to throw
a line out or to put through the many loops
designed as a test not of our power but will
in the far distance we might see things glow

for a few hours

the world's well guarded and we see a mask
that covers nothing but has firm regard
for all i do with gaze both firm and hard
as i'm seated in my place plying my task
there's not much i think that it would ask
while behind the night takes shape starred
and pools of light fill the deep tarred
street in them the cars appear to bask
now here and there we see the moving lights
that signal life continues in its proper way
while signs proliferate on neat green lawns
these are the symbols of the springtime nights
the signs that soon we will return to day
cease being kings and take up being pawns