staring at books

in all these words with all their basic sense
we find no heart no love and little hope
they tell us just enough for us to cope

we're used to falsely sitting on the fence
keeping our balance by shortness of rope
in all these words with all their basic sense

the weight of thought is almost black-hole dense
we cannot ever climb the gentle slope
at least that is the most apparent trope
in all these words with all their basic sense

tasks of interpretation

i see the symbols and their presence praise
the need to comprehend what's clearly art
for those whose task is just to play a part
in guiding us out of this complex maze
we cannot count the tiring hours and days
through which our philistine heroes must dart
to bury spear points in the hopeful heart
and keep the worthy victor from the bays
harsh myrtle-berries with their pungent taste
remind us most of all of changing times
requiring that our minds be most acute
there's never need for any excess haste
the rates are calculated for the climes
and do not threaten anyone's repute

the sun for sorrow

a glooming peace and not a happy calm
hold us in place and keep us from our rest
there's never been such a deep lack of zest
nor absence here of any sort of balm
we act we think despite judicious qualm
to face the world as if a constant test
giving each time only what we give best
and singing to ourselves a cheerful psalm
debate and war are not about to cast
our pleasures and our wishes into dust
but under the grim sky we think they could
all of our truths are consigned to the past
we are required and therefore think we must
achieve just what our fathers said they would