Dec. 4th, 2007

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
shadows in silence
with crisp edges of sunlight
on dry autumn day

eyes on the ceiling
steady reflections of thought
others fear the snow

i have no message
for those who will not listen
yet still one for you

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
the world resolves into some sort of fire
words are not heard while silence is in spin
a noble thought that we aren't made of win
but are the kind who always must aspire
to efforts that will serve at best to tire
and which are ended before they begin
we name that failure you just call it sin
but either way we find the case most dire
the choices seem to go against the grain
of normal sense into some other space
beneath the symbol of the silent cone
where we are left with the most cherished pain
the signs of which are salient in each face
and which is felt down to the very bone

ocean

Dec. 4th, 2007 01:54 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
no meanings are inherent in the name
we find ourselves just staring at the foam
seeing the waves as a gigantic comb
and flow of waters as a huge old game
one or the other makes a big old claim
on all of those who are required to roam
searching for the one true honest flame
the signifier is a brilliant flag
born by a signifer of no mean type
but we are bearers of a lesser sort
not suited for the hunt of the great stag
nor for the playing of the noble pipe
but fit to be attendant lords at court

fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 we take the measure as we take the train
from what we know straight into the unknown
and more than that would just be cause for pain
by the days end each bird will long have flown
away from us into the empty zone
and none of us will have the ready sign
to set each other free to disconfine
those who'd be trapped until the final thaws
it's not the palm for which the most we pine
but for the ones who understand the laws

the warnings that we got were straight and plain
not marked with talk of virgin wife or crone
instead we learned we went against the grain
that this cornmeal was not the best for pone
and yet we did not comprehend the tone
nor the clear implication to resign
and cede our place in the advancing line
lest we should meet the dragon with great jaws
we don't praise heroes who'd the free confine
but for the ones who understand the laws

the matters of great sorrow in the main
make us surprised that we are not alone
still we may hear that story yet again
before our senses are completely blown
without a sigh a murmur nor a groan
each act is part of a brave grand design
we'd not be happy for the ones who'll shine
but for the ones who understand the laws

prince not once have you gone beyond the line
of saying that's what common can't be mine
your heart is still much warmer than a stone
you toast us in the year's first sweetest wine
and ask us all to join you when you dine
but for the ones who understand the laws

syllogism

Dec. 4th, 2007 02:27 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 there's nothing more we are allowed to do
the end of purpose could not be more clear
we find the anger ending with the year

we are supposed to say we have a clue
about the cause and reason for the fear
there's nothing more we are allowed to do

our past becomes a sort of human zoo
each memory paces growling in its lair
and all our thoughts are what we could not  dare
there's nothing more we are allowed to do
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
a sadder darker place is where we end
the road we tread has many horrid turns
and what each gets is less than what he earns

each time we reach a corner or a bend
we hope to see for what the leader yearns
a darker sadder place is where we end

nothing that you could ever hope to send
will matter when our ashes are in urns
already heavy flesh just melts and burns
a sadder darker place is where we end

late autumn

Dec. 4th, 2007 08:21 pm
fledgist: Me in a yellow shirt. (Default)
 
we hide beneath the blankets and we dream
of stranger places than the ones we've seen
all that we know is what we've done or been
yet we surrender to the fictive gleam
of light in motion of imagined beam
and think our senses as alert and keen
as when the future was as bright and clean
as clear cool water of a mountain stream
above us in the morning birds fly south
to places where we've been and cannot be
their easy freedom almost past belief
and i am standing here with open mouth
envisioning those things i cannot see
and caught as usual between joy and grief

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