the meaning of history

pasts misremembered are the story's heart
we tell ourselves the tale and are appeased
but in the end our hearts are never eased
we think it whole but know it only part
the stream was tainted from the very start
we did the things that satisfied and pleased
and even when the bill came never ceased
our lives became mere matter for the mart
the truth is we accomplished all our deeds
not for our freedom but simply to survive
and spread a glamour over the dying past
still that could not satisfy our urgent needs
what's deemed dead may one day revive
and its dread shadow over futures cast

another myth shattered

there's no prometheus lashed to the rock
no hero punished for the human liberation
the story that we know was meant to shock

the gods all stand convicted in the dock
we have abused their latest iteration
there's no prometheus lashed to the rock

to what purpose would we release the lock
that keeps us in our normal situation
the story that we know was meant to shock

we could not hear the midnight watcher's knock
were we to think of it as our salvation
there's no prometheus lashed to the rock

our souls and bodies were each placed in hock
by those who thought we'd reached full satiation
the story that we know was meant to shock

yet at the last we halt and then take stock
of everything that's led to our deflation
there's no prometheus lashed to the rock
the story that we know was meant to shock

the map is not the place

what boundaries we draw never seem quite real
the maps show facts that change with changing years
a rearrangement of folks' hopes and of their fears
the making of charts is done by sight and feel
those things we see are simple products of the deal
the colours are but clothing that truth wears
they change in a moment and the change brings tears
we hope to stand but soon find we've got to kneel
the places look the same when seen from outer space
a visitor from the far stars would note but little change
here on the ground though we know it's not the same
the lines are drawn we alter names of place
those forts we build are in each other's range
we're a domestic species but know that we're not tame

the bird of memory

the winter doesn't take me back to youth
spring with its green and summer's heat
are signs to me of an eternal truth
the vulture flying high above our street
like a policeman on his normal beat
not caring what thoughts are in my head
its wings are steady and its gliding fleet
like me its thoughts are focused on the dead

one would expect the heart to melt with ruth
there are those folk whom i'll no longer greet
i'll not see again that old lady in the booth
there are those friends i can no longer meet
that girl's smile i remember it was sweet
i know that there's no hope and thus no dread
the vulture's wings make motions that are neat
like me its thoughts are focused on the dead

the one whose mind was swift as any sleuth
could not his fate to die in water cheat
that other who at no time was uncouth
i'll never hear the sound of his fast feet
he's gone as surely as last season's wheat
the worms on his young body now are fed
the vulture thinks of him as just more meat
like me its thoughts are focused on the dead

prince lord of hades who will us all defeat
don't let your power swell your awful head
the vulture's belly will soon be replete
like me its thoughts are focused on the dead

after effort calm

this afternoon could pass without a thought
we move through daylight noting only sky
the earth beneath us is not hard nor dry
the soil's compacted but it has been bought
the bird in flight in camera's been caught
mindful of beauty now we watch it fly
beyond our vision we've been told no lie
we smile to see what nature has wrought
now on this afternoon there's little heat
the blue of sky seems to us rather cold
yet grass is green and flowers palely white
there's silence on the gently sloping street
the calm of spring has us safe in its fold
much beauty yet to come before the night

enchanted to a stone

outside in the dark we know it's getting cold
the night will end with frost on every leaf
it's spring but we still face some wintry grief
the world reminds us we are growing old
no longer can we dare be straight or bold
time creeps upon us like a black-clad thief
there's no reward for being boss or chief
life's measured in a different kind of gold
grey in my beard thinning hair on my head
the beasts that whimper in the deepest night
have messages that i don't want to hear
each day i wonder why i get out of bed
what's there to see that does not hurt my sight
or sound outside that does not stun the ear