music while i work

electrons turn to sound and bring release
from solemn duty turned into a game
distant but living we observe the flame

the arts of joy aren't always arts of peace
experience instructs to avoid blame
electrons turn to sound and bring release

from obligations there must come some ease
we fit the needed parts into the frame
declare an end and give desire a name
electrons turn to sound and bring release

hampton square

honest the voice that speaks of gentle light
beyond the trees are merely other folk
like me like us they bend under the yoke
we are all caught in the same human plight
rules change when they are kept out of our sight
all of our hope turns into thinnest smoke
and we are not the ones who see the joke
revolving earth turns every day to night
old houses standing in foreign places
that once we saw as safety and as home
do those who live in them still remember
not only form and feature of our faces
but why we had to up our stakes and roam
from summer up to constant november

grown up

no simple set of words could now relate
what we have learned and what all of it means
our thoughts and hopes aren't worth a hill of beans
and all our anguish seems to come too late
the things that most we want we here debate
as if we were no more than little weans
playacting all the time as kings and queens
subjected to no laws save those of fate
the limits of our day are not so clear
that we can't moan and chatter as they come
just knowing that too soon we mount the train
for now we walk about and take the air
hoping that things will not add to the sum
and we may dance and play before the rain

the last mango tree

slaves built the road we think this as we pass
feet weary as so many feet before
the silent generations under grass

a woman passes smoking on an ass
she's heading towards a most welcome door
slaves built the road we think this as we pass

reaching the church too early for low mass
we pass on by wondering at the score
the silent generations under grass

too many here would harry or harass
any who dared ask for just a little more
slaves built the road we think this as we pass

too many years of blending race and class
have left the good folk sad and all too sore
the silent generations under grass

all is distorted memory's no glass
to see or to reflect on all this lore
slaves built the road we think this as we pass
the silent generations under grass