promise of fresh rain

under deep shadow hope becomes so slight
that we are still astonished at the day
forgetting that the whole thing is a play
and when we draw the curtain enters night
a character skulking at edge of sight
and interfering in the normal way
with anyone with useful things to say
since every action has to be done right
a purple glow at the far edge of dawn
reminds us that the standard rule is change
approaching us only at proper time
we wonder just what card we could have drawn
but then the answer has gone out of range

all meaner things

nothing remains that's either clear or plain
the law of life is one that makes us weep
hope comes and goes like rapid summer rain

a sudden breeze opens shut doors again
the hill we climb is neither high nor steep
nothing remains that's either clear or plain

a measure now of healing comes with pain
we let the blood and ichor slowly seep
while hoping madly for the long dark sleep
nothing remains that's either clear or plain

under high cloud

echoes of night remain in every heart
we wait to see just what falls on the plate
turning the truth into a work of art

a shuttered life spent in a place apart
keeps us in silence behind a thick gate
echoes of night remain in every heart

the job is ended before we can start
we start out early but arrive too late
turning the truth into a work of art

we bear the corpses on a slow mule cart
the lively once are now just so much freight
echoes of night remain in every heart

too soon we must make ready to depart
the tally will be cleared off the old slate
turning the truth into a work of art

the whip can never truly make us smart
only our knowledge of the final state
echoes of night remain in every heart
turning the truth into a work of art

a touch of breeze

a kind of pallor covers all in view
no fire to warm the dry and frozen skin
the grass outside is very wet with dew

we all arrive as part of a fresh crew
ready to fight and wishing we could win
a kind of pallor covers all in view

we're happy to believe that all is new
the story can be told without the spin
all that is needed is just to begin
a kind of pallor covers all in view

vacancy

absence of clamour silence reigns within
outside there's nothing for the eye to see
no blossom left no hungry seeking bee
no empty bottles once brimful with gin
in the deep waters no alarming fin
a world that of both thought and sense is free
the skyline is not marked by any tree
and puffs of air pass over tired skin
a world of colours now reduced to grey
meaning is absent all that's left is sound
and ghosts inhabit every empty space
we cannot call this strange experience day
not one thing here that can shock or astound
and honesty has fled from every face

who's to be master

 

the smiling speaker fair of tongue and face
tells us a tale that none would dare deny
our feeling is that we've gone out of place

a moment more and we'd fall to disgrace
there's none who'd then confront us eye to eye
the smiling speaker fair of tongue and face

another comes to take the sacred space
there are no angels left to hear our cry
all magic is replaced by a plain lie
the smiling speaker fair of tongue and face

Ballad of Modernism

 

All of our houses are machines for living,
machines for living, machines for living;
all of our houses are machines for living,
that is the mode of le Corbusier.

We build in hard concrete, it's brutal and simple;
we don't need to use any natural wood;
our buildings rise truest, without a dimple,
we're for good living, and that's the great good.

All of our houses &c.

The 20th century's the age of eruptions
we'll build a new heaven without any pause;
avoiding the tricks, and all the corruptions,
construction must follow by linear laws.

All of our houses &c.

We'll house the hard workers in tall-rising towers
;the metro and buses collect and disperse
the ones who in sanitary, well-lighted bowers,
will be educated and rarely will curse.

All of our houses &c.

Later generations could never demolish,
the towers we have built here of solid concrete;
we've made things correctly, given them polish,
but made them unsuited for soft human feet.

All of our houses &c.