a bit of clarity

 

a bit of clarity comes not amiss
all forms of choice will have their daily run
but who most matters (beneath winter sun)
we do not speak of nothing is like this
in the unreal but hoped-for realms of bliss
some fool will say or threaten with a gun
each person who declares the myth is done
in the real world we seal things with a kiss
at midnight we will find we're not deranged
when we see only night and the deep scars
of memory are given proper due
we do not find the world suddenly changed
but still as far as ever from the stars
and waiting just as long for morning's blue

as good as kings

 

by all we know of change we cannot speak
of who would give us shelter from the dark
within the walls of calm and shady park
confirming us among the many meek
defended by strange powers of the weak
we may defy the lion and the shark
not straying one lone inch beyond the mark
as now restraint and harsh reserve are chic
others may toil far underground in mines
or on estates their servile pains renew
but we are not to think upon such things
the measures come we understand the signs
and do not ask just what is in the stew
while thinking that we are as good as kings

Poem or Doggerel?

I can observe the voices rise and swell
defining verse, and what is doggerel;
while others, with hardly time for pause,
proclaim that art is subject to some laws
not stated in plain, ordinary terms.
But what can I (and other suchlike worms)
declare anent a subject of such heft?
With all the force that in me has been left
I'll take no cudgels up, nor seek to hide
the fact that here I will not take a side.
Some find the haiku and the sonnet terse,
and think heroic couplets rather worse
than limericks. But, for my humble part,
I'd say that all craft has its art.
(Did I say humble?) Also, every craft
requires a skill not shown by dull and daft.
It's New Year's Eve, I'll head off to my bottle
and leave in peace the ghost of Aristotle.

 

approaching midnight

as we sit and face the future

there's no one knows just what we'll need

anger breeds on edge of suture

fire declares itself with speed

rhyme and reason fade in panic

fire and water meet in peace

not a one who waits is manic

yet not a one could blame caprice

grant the fire will burn the clover

and mighty flood will cleanse the vale

nothing's left here to recover

none of the wise will hear this tale

shallow paint the world in colour

make the choices come out flat

things will seem to come out duller

the night belongs to angry bat

idle remarks

 

sound like gunfire just the fireworks’ noise
air again polluted after cleansing rain
the foolish who value more than life their toys
are most surprised to note that in the plain
emptinesses of night their sharp disdain
of normal courtesy might seem a sort
of torment to all those who seek the port
of sleep who love the many charms of rest
this night like many will turn out too short
but what we always want is just the best

we leave such matters to the wayward boys
those who through their lives or in the main
attempt to keep their heads up by such ploys
as would their childhood memories retain
that’s the sad purpose of their old campaign
but we know that their plans will just abort
that’s been the steady the constant report
of those who say the sauce now lacks all zest
tonight we have come up with no retort
but what we always want is just the best

as we maintain our charm and equipoise
we hear around us still the antique strain
our subtlest enemy at night employs
to keep us from our sleep and yet again
make all our wishes hard to ascertain
we hide ourselves in bed as in a fort
and try our best our minds not to contort
but all seems turned into a mighty jest
there is no vale to which we might resort
but what we always want is just the best

prince though you’re tempted now to stamp and snort
do not deny yourself your best support
too often others fail the final test
but though the foolish through the streets cavort
their challenge is not one the wise would court
but what we always want is just the best