the art of writing

when there's clear light we see the trees
the leaves reappearing green in the grey
the warmth of life announcing a spring day
twigs moving slowly in the light breeze
this is what's needed our spirits to please
the definition of noon the gentle sway
no need for solemnity on such a fine day
the signal's for those still down on their knees
duty obliges but its call's not too loud
thought after thought chases elusive word
and meaning escapes as the letters elide
here right now avoiding the future crowd
i look outside seeking the bright young bird
with messages about both hope and pride

the past and the future

words flow thoughts seem to cohere
the presentation's written and revised
the hour for action is drawing near
the concepts to be spoken are devised

there's never any hurry till the ending
or so it seems and then i have to write
words and ideas to my service bending
there's a vision on the edge of my sight

recalling times when heart was frozen
by consideration of every single fact
it's not an easy thing to be one chosen
to speak out with both honesty and tact

messages come i have to make it known
how this reality comes near the bone

more image than a shade

winning or losing what matters is the game
our task is just to struggle till the very end
what comes tomorrow will not be the same

our expectation was a world made tame
the wildness we confronted would not bend
winning or losing what matters is the game

we looked and saw the peoples that came
what grace they had they could not lend
what comes tomorrow will not be the same

we shape our images to fit the given frame
the colours do not run together and blend
winning or losing what matters is the game

the light we have does not come from a flame
what we have got here we will not now send
what comes tomorrow will not be the same

we ask and we are told the proper name
for all that we would master or intend
winning or losing what matters is the game
what comes tomorrow will not be the same

not narcissus

we're not monsters though the mirror shows
a face that we don't want to admit is there
commingled essences of love and war and fear
as plain to any viewer as the end of your nose
we deny all we want to say that the rose
outweighs the thorn that in the end we care
what happens to each other that we'd dare
defy our own nature if things came to blows
the devil and the angel both of them lies
what we are is more and less than these
partial images of our longstanding quest
we can't deny what's there before our eyes
the world does not exist our vanity to please
the truth we tell ourselves is merely a jest

with sudden clarity

what we illuminate we do not see
the agent is the victim of the age
the letter is the prisoner of the page
and yet the leaf doesn't define the tree
from the narrow passages we flee
seeking the open spaces of our rage
to act the tyrant on the open stage
the moment doesn't mean but must be
enough that there's a chance for light
to creep right in and make us smile
before we turn and face the will of fate
beings that congregate in dead of night
may be kept off our backs for a long while
the principle will not define the state