between the storms

a silent moment's worth a million tales
we ask ourselves just how much we would pay
to get what comes for free on any day
the thing that we want is the thing that fails

let all our hearts be turned back to red clay
and we'd not know just how much we owe
nor yet how much there still remains to know
nor will we start upon the proper way

at the appointed hour we'll see the show
we'll not be too far forward nor far back
not one of us will think we'd have the knack
just when to smile and when with hope to glow

we arm ourselves and think about attack
but aren't the ones who'll stand on the front line
our feet won't be blown off by a mine
nore will we think of those who wail and lack

as far as we're concerned the whole world's fine
and we aren't going to face the harshest pain
our lives are predicated on the steadiest gain
and we have no reason now to weep or pine

and yet we fear the ones who cut in twain
the knotted cords that hold us safe in place
we worry that we still can lose the race
and wonder at the long delay of rain

our minds are set to research and to trace
just what the start was of all this broil
we don't expect to find a foe or foil
but want to see all of you praise our grace

on these rough waters we won't pour this oil
the calm must come from some far different source
we ride the storm as others ride a horse
and laugh when any thinks of it as toil

upon these waters we must take our course
the journey with great fear and terror rife
will lead us straight to horror and to strife
and we will meet them with our fullest force

for in the end the one with the sharp knife
will be the one who lives the fullest life

At the end of June

We wait for morning,
hot, steam rising after rain,
green trees are glowing.

Outside the bluest
flower draws our waking eye,
such perfect colour.

I watch Mexican
roofers laying tarpaper
on the newest house.

A late breakfast is
the summer's finest pleasure,
tea makes me joyful.

I name this moment
the one that should never leave,
freeze now this second.

what can't be hid

a framing moment passes and we sigh
not one thing left that we could even take
the rain has filled the river and the lake
the green is brighter to the naïve eye
a kind of lethargy will my heart tie
i could not say that things were fine and jake
but soon enough i know the world will bake
under the blazing sun the flower will die
more rain should come and let us breathe
a cleaner air with better sense of hope
the day holds promise but we cannot trust
the trees and reeds the rising mist will wreathe
we wonder if the pain will let us cope
and if our joints will seize up with rust

all that fades

at one in the afternoon
solar whips strike ground
we listen for the sound

we wish for light of moon
which we know will confound
at one in the afternoon

rain cannot come too soon
to soothe the panting hound
and other's i'll be bound
at one in the afternoon

playing no games

the thing we never do is count the cost
that would bring pain and is not fun
on each dark stream we're turned and tossed
the thing we never do is count the cost

we laugh in horror at the things we've lost
and know that every day we have to run
the thing we never do is count the cost
that would bring pain and is not fun

liberty

we're free to die and starve and lose
and that is all that matters in the end
all life is concentrated in one bruise
we're free to die and starve and lose

we speak with joy of freedom to choose
and wonder why we're gone around the bend
we're free to die and starve and lose
and that is all that matters in the end

a broken crown

a broken crown lies on the floor
life continues or so we hope
we know that this is at the core
a broken crown lies on the floor

we cannot ask for an open door
we are supposed simply to cope
a broken crown lies on the floor
life continues or so we hope

deft we're not

a sort of answer we cannot hear
all that we want is in our hearts
we are the folk of complext parts

we can't be bound to what is dear
there is a history of false starts
a sort of answer we cannot heart

it does not matter far or near
the loads we carry on our carts
are lightened by surprising arts
a sort of answer we cannot hear

watching the day

a moment's pause within the shade
no hours will pass but we still wait
there's not a barrier nor gate
the street's the place for a parade
we want the world outside to fade
each of us looks for a true mate
but lacking that will not blame fate
we know we didn't make the grade
a sort of silence fills the day
not one leaf moves but still they shine
we ask so much of nature's power
so much to do so much to say
we cannot now our thoughts refine
but in the corner will not cower

appearance

the world is not the thing we need
a shape of shadow falls upon each face
we know that we should eschew greed
the world is not the thing we need

we know that we must plant the seed
if we are going to claim our place
the world is not the thing we need
a shape of shadow falls upon each face

confronting reality

not one of us who dreads the fire
but has to brave it in our time
there are no gods upon the pyre
not one of us who dreads the fire

we each restrain our rage and ire
to tell the truth would be a crime
not one of us who dreads the fire
but has to brave it in our time

rediscovery

a sense that here we've found true gold
is seldom followed by the actual fact
we say this here not lacking any tact
but because such stories are much told
standing outside we yearn to be in fold
from our own power we have been sacked
but we must answer or else become racked
and make our fortune only when we're old
upon the wall the symbols are quite clear
signals from a happy past we must forget
burdens that we can't bear we must set down
another kind of tale in this strange year
allows us to compare the purpose set
and answer with a smile and not a frown

a full recollection

what we must find is our most ancient joy
the thing that drove our happy younger heart
before the taste of life began to cloy
what we must find is our most ancient joy

i can remember that when i was a boy
i knew that i had more than a small part
what we must find is our most ancient joy
the thing that drove our happy younger heart

the truest magic

always we need cash
the world requires full payment
and gives no credit

the only true lack
is felt within the real heart
but never the head

a magical hour
in which we learn the old truth
all that lives feels pain

we know just what we know

the hour will last for twice as long
when we must wait and bide our time
the singer will forget the song
the hour will last for twice as long

we cannot compare right and wrong
but know that all life is a crime
the hour will last for twice as long
when we must wait and bide our time

but still no explosion

the fear that grips us has no proper base
we know of evils but they have no shape
our senses have been covered by a cape

the truth is not in some far distant space
we aren't so sure but that it's all on tape
the fear that grips us has no proper base

a kind of mask will fall upon each face
allowing us to lie and bow and scrape
a sort of fading sense of the true ape
the fear that grips us has no proper base

a black cloud hangs

we wait and wait and do not see the stars
our minds are driven not by thought but fear
we know that all that you can do is stare

the storm has left behind nothing but spars
but we are certain that you still won't dare
we wait and wait and do not see the stars

the silent millions lonely in their cars
have nothing in their hearts worthy to spare
they look upon us and they do not care
we wait and wait and do not see the stars

eventually we reach the sea

the river flows and shifts its load of mud
against the current the wise do not go
some things retain the colour of old blood

i know that others worry it will flood
but this old stream is broad and very slow
the river flows and shifts its load of mud

a moment passes we know it was a dud
the ones who watch are not the ones who grow
some things retain the colour of old blood

we watch the stupid cow it chews its cud
high in the air we're looked on by a crow
the river flows and shifts its load of mud

the truth we find out falls with a dull thud
we hear the sound but do not feel the blow
some things retain the colour of old blood

the broadest leaf must start out as a bud
the ones who see this are the ones who know
the river flows and shifts its load of mud
some things retain the colour of old blood