Willow Walk

under the same stars

this permitted we have grace to caper

from dusk to dawn as the leaves redly fall

marking the season with a noble ball

each bright dancer bearing amber taper

notes now shining on the golden paper

make our demands seem piteously small

as watchers wonder why we had the gall

to think our hottest wishes more than vapour

now time must move in tandem with the sun

our hearts obey an older slower law

while in their nests the summer birds still wait

far to the south where warmth is never done

but nature rules with equally harsh claw

a younger person wonders at his fate

distant lightning

an echo of the past resolves to pain

no matter what we do none can escape

all stand bedraggled in the autumn rain

 

who thought to win was first to fall off wain

the furthest off from the finishing tape

an echo of the past resolves to pain

 

it takes no wisdom to note the hard strain

of those who holding matters in firm shape

all stand bedraggled in the autumn rain

 

not daring to look up nor to complain

while foolish mouths are all of them agape

an echo of the past resolves to pain

 

some facts are set out very clear and plain

as both bright angel and dull foolish ape

all stand bedraggled in the autumn rain

 

we must lament the loss of normal brain

which must explain how we are in this scrape

an echo of the past resolves to pain

all stand bedraggled in the autumn rain

long waiting

at this dark curve of the long mountain road

the signpost tells us just where we must go

those little places we are meant to know

but do not speak of method nor of mode

the yellow finger is a sort of goad

to warn us that our pace is yet too slow

our feet must hasten so we catch the glow

and make most certain that our goods are stowed

not here but soon a true signal will come

to clarify just who must keep the score

and who depart and lose the chance at fame

so much depends on true tone of the drum

not how or where each of us comes ashore

but only that we must accept the blame

at home the green remains

so many trees in full and golden leaf

this changing season as the days turn cold

birds have gone south and fools have become bold

 

nights grow too long and sunlight is too brief

you know the story it is often told

so many trees in full and golden leaf

 

now swiftly falling for time's a hard thief

and eager hoarding the  fast-passing gold

leaves us behind nothing that we can hold

so many trees in full and golden leaf

one leaden rule

the world is much more complex than you think

tricks that you learn when young turn out to fail

this weight of truth would drive a saint to drink

 

you've forged a chain of good things link by link

and then find out it's all to no avail

the world is much more complex than you think

 

your happy moment passes in a blink

it vanishes the second you exhale

this weight of truth would drive a saint to drink

 

cold winds will find the one uncovered chink

and force their way in just to make you ail

the world is much more complex than you think

 

so you work hard and idlers get the mink

with all the jewels that are out on sale

this weight of truth would drive a saint to drink

 

no one at all must be allowed to think

since their good effort will end up quite stale

the world is much more complex than you think

this weight of truth would drive a saint to drink

peaks that scrape the sky

to fear the mountains that you have not seen

strikes me as beyond odd as plain bizarre

there is no horror that could strike so far

nor any danger that might come between

that place and this you need to find the mean

of calm and order not to let things mar

the proper temper so that at the bar

to make all sober we might intervene

each new adventure has a painful price

in time and effort and we can't recall

the life so spent back to a happy place

but you don't ever want to hear advice

and are too eager to run out and fall

and then return with fresh tears on your face

beside the limestone road

an old marl-hole where rat-bats congregate

bears quiet witness to each hidden sin

not just to what we could not dare to win

by dint of effort and so blame on fate

this is no church for you to desecrate

but a dark place where many lives begin

and those who know will just conceal a grin

for nouns not verbs would seem to conjugate

that was the story when the night turned cold

under a sky as dark as any soul

when all the blame was placed on certain wiles

but others said the cause was merely gold

unwisdom aiming at a pretty goal

that journey will not end for many miles

ballade of regulation

all of our efforts fall into the shade

drastic the choice but not without its crumb

of gentle hope to keep hearts unafraid

a chance of passion that would allow some

to build new life where others would be glum

or hang their hopes upon a rusty nail

for you to laugh or others to assail

those facts of business that prove not so tame

but can stand up when others simply fail

these are the rules and we must play the game

 

time with its tricks our patience must abrade

or beat a rhythm on a noisy drum

such are the practices of normal trade

when all of human life is a small sum

and nothing much splits millionaire from bum

we are blown off our course by the swift gale

and can't expect to make an easy sale

since all we get is insult and foul blame

it's tasks like these that make the toughest quail

these are the rules and we must play the game

 

others might seek to hide or to evade

the pains and penances that have to come

in rapid series and in swift cascade

we cannot keep these things beneath the thumb

nothing is left and we have been struck dumb

preventing the recounting of detail

all  honest words are cast outside the pale

and truth becomes a matter of ill fame

against the facts there is none who would rail

these are the rules and we must play the game

 

prince you receive no message through the mail

and find the secrets have turned very stale

there's no one left who can ignite the flame

but many where who hard fate could bewail

these are the rules and we must play the game

in the swamps

across the solitudes a single moan

passes and we are locked into the plight

of one far distant who is not alone

although that pain is hidden from our sight

nothing is done by you in our despite

at invocation we will light the blaze

we see again the colder harder days

 

you know the value of a simple stone

and how to make it shed a little light

that will convert to something hardly known

to those who claim to be straight and forthright

our task is not to hasten nor excite

but to take you most swiftly through the maze

we see again the colder harder days

 

we know the colour of the human bone

and how to polish it and turn it bright

as instrument to punish and atone

plain cure for darkness and the coming blight

this product of the sacrificial height

must be exposed unto the divine gaze

we see again the colder harder days

 

hopes and desires are wholly overblown

what is to come will never give us right

nor any justice since the truth is flown

out of the window into the cold night

and what is left is not for our delight

no one would want to give us love or praise

we see again the colder harder days

Count no Chickens

John Maxwell Sunday, October 19, 2008

 

Barring some transcendental upheaval, some unforeseeable catastrophe or the kind of unconscionable 'October Surprise' to which the US Republican party is so addicted, John McCain has almost no chance of being elected president of the United States. This is despite one of the nastiest, most dishonourable election campaigns ever conducted anywhere.

Months ago, during the Democratic Party primaries, I predicted in this column that this would be the dirtiest election campaign in American history. It was worse than that - dirtier than any election campaign I have ever heard of.

John McCain, unfortunately, has never heard of David Coore's first law of holes: when you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.

Instead, he recruited battalions of assistant diggers and welcomed the contributions of hundreds if not thousands more eager volunteers with the result that, approaching the end of his final election campaign, he has lost electoral support, public respect, his own honour and the prospect of enjoying in in public admiration and goodwill in his sunset years.

I know the exact moment when I realised that McCain had lost the election. It was during the second debate with Obama and I was watching, as I always do, the little meter at the bottom of the TV screen which reflects the feelings of a specially selected group of uncommitted viewers. I soon realised that while there were clearly favourable and adverse reactions to Obama, for McCain the meter mostly remained flat.

I thought this was a little odd and wondered if the meter wasn't working, because I expected some reaction when McCain said something I thought they may have disliked. But no, the meter flatlined for most of his time. The uncommitted had effectively tuned him out.