there is no brilliance

 there is no brilliance on distant shore
a moment's hesitation serves to tell
just what it is that all the fools adore

so much there is to hate or to abhor
we listen for the coming morning bell
there is no brilliance on distant shore

the morning news is more accounts of gore
modern accounts of bomb and shot and shell
just what it is that all the fools adore

you moan and cry and huddling on the floor
give way to tears and let go a loud yell
there is no brilliance on distant shore

safe in their beds the leaders gently snore
at telling the safe stories they excel
just what it is that all the fools adore

this is we're told another kind of war
the path to heaven has to pass through hell
there is no brilliance on distant shore
just what it is that all the fools adore

submission

 

having gone places where no human feet
have felt the ground and where no human eye
has seen those shadows you have cause to sigh
on hearing once more the familiar beat
of human hearts on every well-known street
knowing they go forth once more just to die
for no cause better than an ancient lie
another marker in the long defeat
from places further than we've ever known
come signals in forms we would best expect
from those who speak the tongues of honest folk
visions of better places we are shown
told what prizes we ought now to select
and how to smile when we put on the yoke

youth and grace

a mirror held to what is not your face
shows all of us just what you have become
forgotten now is all your youth and grace

we cannot fit into this tiny space
without our hands and feet becoming numb
a mirror held to what is not your face

we choose to claim this is our proper place
that all the numbers add to one true sum
forgotten now is all your youth and grace

the easy choice is just bow and abase
before the gods who know to balance plumb
a mirror held to what is not your face

no soldier has to come and set the pace
we do not know just why we feel so glum
forgotten now is all your youth and grace

announcers tell us we have lost the race
nobody's willing to grant us a crumb
a mirror held to what is not your face
forgotten now is all your youth and grace

 

over island shore

 

whose face and fortune we have named before
will not again trouble those thoughts that rise
like the high mountains over island shore

we left your message lying at the core
where it was safe from idlers and the spies
whose face and fortune we have named before

no clever scout could ever find the spoor
but other symbols you will soon apprise
like the high mountains over island shore

no angry creatures here will rave or roar
one speaks in quiet and another cries
whose face and fortune we have named before

so many enemies we might abhor
in this foul kingdom governed by the flies
like the high mountains over island shore

but what we know to beg and to implore
will not be set aside by guards of lies
whose face and fortune we have named before
like the high mountains over island shore

perfection of form

 

perfection of form
branches bare of all their leaves
winter's deepest heart

so brief the white snow
thin the ice on our small pond
frogs' eggs in cold mud

deer eating our leaves
their hoofprints marking bare mud
life in the suburbs

forms of patience

 

so we are waiting still for healing rain
there are no reasons for the silent air
to be so empty for the birds to stare

the sun will set soon that is very plain
each tree we look on seems so stark and bare
so we are waiting still for healing rain

the depth of winter is the height of pain
all that we know is the hard weight of care
the curdling light of which we are aware
so we are waiting still for healing rain

the other kingdom

what happens when you fall inside the whale
is not a secret hidden cities there
filled with the sorts of beings you'd beware
if met with in the normal kind of tale
angels and demons jointly will assail
your tender hide but soon you will not care
but be brought into a much stranger air
safe and secure from any rain or gale
beyond this place no man has dared to go
so there is no report that i could bring
of wonders of of blandness to assuage
your rising fears there still is much to know
of all the magics that the heathen sing
and certainties that come from distant age