looking out at the dark

at times you want to see the fire sweep
over all the city cleansing as it goes
at others you want the eternal snows
to cover up the towers many feet deep
across the ruins let the monsters creep
as cold rain falls and the great river flows
let nature deliver her least subtle blows
the time has come when all should sleep
but no that would not be the proper way
to punish all the evil things that walk
and claim the human shield for all their deeds
you hope instead for one bright shining day
when rightful action will replace the talk
and all that's done will meet the deepest needs

Voyager

The voyage will depend on a mixed crew
who must learn to live and work as one,
to voyage home is all they wish to do.

Strange and uncanny things will come in view,
they'll grow into a family before they're done;
the voyage will depend on a mixed crew.

Love will bind them all before they're through
and they won't lose their spirit on the run --
to voyage home is all they wish to do.

Crises will come and be resolved on cue
yet from their purpose they will not be spun;
the voyage will depend on a mixed crew.

Carpers may speak nonsense till they're blue
but the bold captain duty will not shun;
to voyage home is all they wish to do.

Over the years their spirits will renew
in spite of threats from tractor beam or gun.
The voyage will depend on a mixed crew;
to voyage home is all they wish to do.

exquisite experience examined

before this fellow stopped bewraying kex
his personality was quite fully shaped
he looked to act where others merely gaped
and would not let the normal actions vex
with determination unusual for his sex
he had things wrapped and neatly taped
from boundaries and limits he's escaped
but all his children's names begin with 'x'
saints and cities and warriors all mixed
flavours of different continents combined
and there'll be three who's speech is a burr
that's not a problem they won't have it fixed
i've not a doubt they'll all be most refined
and paternal roaring diminished to a purr

head wall bounce

there isn't hope of any good or end
but what we build and that's so weak
for any good we want or could seek
the answer comes in backward trend
whatever's made or what we send
matters little we know that the meek
are eaten by the strong and at the peak
of power there's nothing that can bend
discovery of just how much to bear
that load's not made for ordinary back
the road goes up there's no plateau
each journey's day seems like a year
there is no light upon this track
when we are come then must we go

Puto ego deus fio

What god descended from Olympian height,
perhaps from some vast distances of space
to give to Barbara his divinest grace;
or, perhaps, rose from the most Stygian night
to create for us some quandary or plight
and teach us all our proper servile place?
(We'd love so much this paternity to trace.)
We cannot know, and that we don't think right.
Perhaps great Thor from garth of Aesir came,
or Brother Anansi from far Afric land;
perhaps some half-remembered god of war
gave to our George the dark celestial flame
(not Agni's but much like it), so from his hand
might one day come the bright atomic star.