April to-ing and froing

When April comes, we long for the sweet rain
to refresh the brown grass and turn it green;
we worry about flies and so set up the screen,
although we acknowledge it to be a royal pain.
At the same time we sweat and grunt and strain
for tax day is soon coming and we've all seen
that doing our taxes will cause endless spleen,
but still we've got to file them, that is plain.
The warmth of March meant that we could set out
some herbs and flowers, hoping for an early crop,
but then we got the cold and all that frost.
March was dry, but, truly, there was no drought;
and with the cold, we saw our vain hopes drop
still we will plant again despite the cost.

once more the spring

all colours blend into a soft smooth green
the trees outside have taken on the hue
that shows that life is again turning new
what's not forgotten is that winter's been
if not too cold still brutal harsh and lean
we take our pleasure in the lovely view
for all our efforts it's a thing that's due
we want the world not just to be but mean
now if we go back to the scenes of youth
we take the colours plain and permanent
it's not the greens but yellows reds and blues
that strike our hearts that's the plainest truth
above us then the sky stretched a warm tent
and nature showed its richness in more hues

mike ford would have been fifty

and now the memory the choice of the right words
we have to go one day but now we measure loss
in unsung powers in dragons in the arriving birds
all that we read is gold he stripped away the dross
and left us tales and poems made with such art
that we could not see it each word each human tale
found its true lodging in each mind and heart
we want his memory as a light that must not fail
the story's told we know that yet all that we desire
is to reread it to make it seem bright and new
to raise once more within each soul the fire
to give the praise and honour that he was due
for one brief moment forget there's no more writ
and just rejoice in his warmth and his wit

home from the hill

now where we find ourselves that place we claim
we are a folk but we'll not be named a flock
the things we do are done in our good name

the rain that comes will never douse the flame
the water rubs but cannot break the rock
now where we find ourselves that place we claim

whatever happens there will be no blame
we turn the corner and we change our block
the things we do are done in our good name

the archer and the gunman take their aim
their time will not be measured by the clock
now where we find ourselves that place we claim

the forest's small but still is wild not tame
we listen every day for the harsh knock
the things we do are done in our good name

all in the end will show not pride nor shame
at night we close the door and turn the lock
now where we find ourselves that place we claim
the things we do are done in our good name

a spring wednesday

the rain falls soft and soaks the soil
outside we watch the clouds go by
the pearly stretch that we call sky
next door we see the builders toil
the distant wisps of moist air roil
not even vultures want to fly
the distant green at peace will lie
nothing the calm beauty will spoil
so here and there we think of strife
on the phone i counsel an even strain
calm must prevail despite all jars
these are the perfect times of life
between the pleasure and the pain
when distant are the crimes and wars

nothing remarkable

when we have shaped the moment to our need
the things we want will seem to be no gain
we know the tallest tree grows from a tiny seed

we live and fight and everyone will bleed
we know the limits of the body's pain
when we have shaped the moment to our need

each rides the land on a swift iron steed
the least effect will leave some giant stain
we know the tallest tree grows from a tiny seed

the bar of steel looks like a greyish reed
raising the limit does not make things plain
when we have shaped the moment to our need

we've reached the end and now we regret speed
the things we are we've never had to feign
we know the tallest tree grows from a tiny seed

the thought we find matters far more than deed
the greenest grass comes from the heavy rain
when we have shaped the moment to our need
we know the tallest tree grows from a tiny seed

what obligation

the charioteer is not the one who spoke
name any god and he will turn his eye
straight on your heart and you cannot lie
your way out you must bear his yoke
or else await the final killing stroke
that comes in silence from a clear sky
you have one duty and that is to die
life as we know it never is a joke
yet when we read all that arjun said
another possibility will come to mind
though krishna chide or brahma glower
there is no need for anguish or for dread
another path to silence we may find
and even gods must know the final power

After the blast

Back in the day we did things with no net,
we tested each device knowing that the end
could come faster than we could apprehend.
But still we knew that there was magic yet
in every test tube in the complex set
that we had lusted for, we knew each trend,
each step in the long process, and would bend
every rule possible, and not break a sweat.
Now, when we see the crater and the smoke
comes dark and choking from the ravaged ground
we regret nothing. There was a good chance
we could have done the thing, that's no joke;
but now we sit here and cannot make a sound,
instead we cry for those who'll never dance.