to feed on beauty

 

we ask so much of light upon the flowers
a sustenance of the initial joy
the heart is not to know that it's a ploy
the fruit of labour for so many hours
rather the mind should leap to leafy bowers
should turn the world into a happy toy
restoring wonder of the girl or boy
and giving meaning back to human powers
poppies that bloom in the grass by the road
bring smiles to faces in the evening light
flashes of colour that restore the heart
for those who have to live by narrow code
constrained to always figure out what's right
need artlessness that is produced by art

how it goes on

i hear the voices of the noisy birds
they're at the old and truly magic dance
communication requires less than words

were they to congregate in flocks or herds
how else would each its pleasant cause advance
i hear the voices of the noisy birds

this principle the one that undergirds
all of our movements is not simple chance
communication requires less than words

we ask these questions seeming to be nerds
whose focus is on meaning not romance
i hear the voices of the noisy birds

life draws significance from all these surds
so much expressed in fractions of a glance
communication requires less than words

to get the truth of milk we need the curds
and so we need to watch these creatures prance
i hear the voices of the noisy birds
communication requires less than words

what ought to happen

 within the forest are no magic folk
we walk for hours and find no sign of elves
only the sounds of leaves and the odd croak

rain makes the past into the humus soak
more than bent backs reward the one who delves
within the forest are no magic folk

you'll soon turn out an ordinary bloke
no magic axe-heads will fly off the helves
only the sounds of leaves and the odd croak

no númenor nor wizard isle of roke
just the plain schools for ordinary selves
within the forest are no magic folk

we may incant and the dim fires stoke
but have no means of transcending ourselves
only the sounds of leaves and the odd croak

and so each head will bend under the yoke
the mystic trees turn into walls and shelves
within the forest are no magic folk
only the sound of leaves and the odd croak

hitting the wall

there are bright words that come right off the tongue
but growing older they're so hard to find
those magics that expand the willing mind

the world's a simple place when you are young
your greatest fear is to be left behind
there are bright words that come right off the tongue

no one you think has sungof what you've sung
you're in a world of the lame halt and blind
and then too late you find yourself confined
there are bright words that come right off the tongue

a single leaf

a single leaf is history in green
our knowledge does not vanish into past
we are the sum of all that we have seen

there are some places where we have not been
nor have we served for years before the mast
a single leaf is history in green

once each of us hoped to be king or queen
not knowing into what streams we'd be cast
we are the sum of all that we have seen

in memory still bright we find the scene
when thought transfixed us making us stand fast
a single leaf is history in green

that moment when a single branch would lean
to show just where dramatic breeze had passed
we are the sum of all that we have seen

the world is still made up of things that mean
but nothing that we want can hope to last
a single leaf is history in green
we are the sum of all that we have seen

seeking the self

 

you take a number but don't lose your name
and so you think you have in some way gained
the fear that i have cannot but be feigned

as far as you can see it's all the same
the world remains clean whole and unstained
you take a number but don't lose your name

you want to think that it's another game
the meaning of which may sometimes be strained
for in one box the whole thing is contained
you take a number but don't lose your name

profit or honour

 

beneath the hill the old kings still asleep
are waiting for a time that cannot come
are listening for a certain note of drum

that will at the same time be high and deep
meanwhile the forest turns into a slum
beneath the hill the old kings still asleep

we do not see the hungry monsters creep
nor do we hear their sullen quiet hum
instead we wait till we can add the sum
beneath the hill the old kings still asleep