Willow Walk

between the storms

so many echoes in the rain

leave nothing of our vision clear

but when we breathe the morning air

the feeling's fresh the scent is plain

to all who notice yet we hear

so many echoes in the rain

that every ordinary brain

is forced into a deep despair

at oaths that we are forced to swear

so many echoes in the rain

the place of decision

we did not know all that the words have said

in the dead past and what was on the wall

vivid in sunlight is now past recall

but not all meanings dwell amongst the dead

waiting for better times and less cold dread

to illustrate the human rise and fall

of hearts that circulate and do not stall

but pain and narrowness stay in the head

that was a different and a better mind

possessed by those who sought to build our hope

in concrete forms and who not thinking stealth

in any way a virtue felt the kind

were more equipped for climbing the long slope

towards a place where all would share the wealth

thus said the prophet

we make our choices with honest conviction

and are persuaded that an angry curse

is just a matter for some plangent verse

or else results from sloppy bad male diction

all our desire is life with little friction

and we can't understand how the converse

happens how all our actions make things worse

just why the happy ending's only fiction

to tell this story would take me too long

so it must be cut short and that's a shame

since all the world is hanging on the tale

still all in all what hurts makes us more strong

and better able soon to win the game

while early victors in the end must fail

blooming jonquils

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

in the mild air when winter seems a lie

it is the time for all good things to grow

outside the breezes do not cease to flow

and clouds are scudding grey across the sky

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

so clearly yellow do those flowers show

they banish dullness and we can descry

it is the time for all good things to grow

life is so eager to get up and go

so energetic it could almost fly

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

returning from their sleep as if they know

we long for colour to delight each eye

it is the time for all good things to grow

in proper order this is nature's show

we only guide it then we smile and sigh

behind the house we see the jonquils blow

it is the time for all good things to grow

from evening to morning

frogs croaking through the night even in cold

february so rustically loud

you feel immersed within a chanting crowd

and yet the sound itself does not grow old

the singers do not seem to be consoled

but croak majestically clear and proud

this is their world they won't be disallowed

by sleepy humans none of whom are bold

to say all this is merely to record

last night's concerto in the nearby pond

as one more sign of nature undismayed

by all we do for my part i just snored

dreamt of strange worlds and places far beyond

my normal life then woke to mundane trade

from the conservative dark

there are no answers coming in the night

nor clarity in morning that is why

we seek for explanations on the fly

in earnest wish for ending of our plight

but nothing comes there is no vivid sight

all's grey and dullness settles on each eye

there's no firm sanity we can espy

the universe seems ordered by mere spite

when we were children we were told that cause

and effect followed by a straight decree

of nature's and the world was really plain

to adult eyes but now we have no laws

to follow and we find we are not free

since those who want to lead us are insane

to the last decimal

so many orders of which none matter

in this harsh place where all words come to fail

in giddy smoke and stinking horses' stale

it seems that all our urges need to shatter

because we have not found the proper scale

so many orders of which none matter

but many fools who do not cease to flatter

yet will not stoop to help us when we ail

nor build a roof to shelter from the hail

so many orders of which none matter

symphony of a thousand

thunder declaring with a mighty noise

what we once knew but later chose to hide

believing we had so few other ploys

and only a small chance to save our pride

this was the the noble sound we came to hear

sublimest product of the engineer

of music there was the full weight of night

being lifted up around us the height

of passion reached in moments and the pace

of dragons felt as if it were their right

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

the calm the strain the skill that he deploys

marks the director as the truest guide

brimful of zest and yet with equipoise

he knows he's got us all here for the ride

to turn us all at once to wolf and deer

and have a world of magic just appear

before our eyes without the power of sight

by mass effect of sound and not of light

no easy thing our plain lives to displace

a thousand voices is a tool of might

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

my eye is on the many girls and boys

in rank behind as all these worlds collide

what do they know how do they have such poise

in the great task in which they are allied

so much depends on voice bright and austere

all deeply human that is very clear

we have full understanding of the rite

and know the meaning all the words incite

into the sacred silence of this space

hope for escape from the old mortal plight

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

prince you have asked about that magic night

and how the mass of sound was got just right

across the world i tell you to your face

you had to be there darkness vanished quite

we knew it all and knew it all for grace

just beyond the wall

the normal vision of the human way

is what we bring at first into each mind

in hope that when we are by fate confined

in the beige cubes of ordinary day

no creeping horrors will come out to prey

on thoughts that must to wider worlds be blind

for fear of just exactly what we'd find

if honest brain was let come out to play

but there are dragons just beyond the wall

the child inside will know though adults fail

so often just to open up their eyes

or let their ears adjust to hear the call

of beings greater than the normal scale

moving their wings across the winter skies

The 2012 Campaign

Attend, O public, to my supple song

It  is of moment but it won't last long,

Think how the world, in these dank, cheerless days

Could be improved by satire's fiery blaze.

But no lampooning could produce the pain

Of list'ning to a speech from Herman Cain;

Of knowledge of the world he gave no sign

But like a dullard uttered 'nine-nine-nine'.

'Twas not that did him in, I shall be clear,

But an excessive liking for the fair.

Rick Perry strode so handsome on the stage,

Proclaimed himself the Hero of our Age

And truest Guardian of good Christian Rage.

Alas for him, this Spokesman of the South

Could not connect his mind unto his mouth.

The fist was small, the latter seemed so large

But could not function even at full charge.

The lady Bachmann said that she was sent

By God's command; she lost and so she went

Right back to Minnesota where she rants

Ignored by all except the flies and ants.

But now, as we survey the meeting hall

Behold the earnest visage of Ron Paul.

He wants the government to do fuck-all

Yet thousands think he's Jefferson return'd,

The brilliant leader for whom they've yearn'd.

Onward he leads his happy, crazy band

With a mad mix of Jesus and Ayn Rand.

And who is this who comes into our forum?

The sweater-vested frothy Rick Santorum.

The problems of the poor do not him vex,

Instead he worries about man-dog sex.

The great crusade that he has in his sights

Is that of cutting back on women's rights,

On those of gays, Latinos, and of blacks,

Because that way the rich will pay less tax.

Now Doctor Gingrich makes the ladies swoon

With talk of bases on Mars and the Moon,

He's go to any length, will lack all ruth,

But damn it all, will never tell the truth.

He has a plan to get us out of debt

By staking all on an enormous bet

That wealthy folk are selfless. That's a bitch

Leaving the poor at mercy of the rich.

Willard declares that he's truly the One,

Ordained by Heaven, the true, blessèd son

Who has come to save us, to take us higher,

And we should rejoice for he loves to fire.

Romney's the Savior, worthy of each vote,

Even from those who can't stay afloat;

He sympathises, he'll write them a note

Explaining why each poor person's to blame

For outsourcing. Isn't that such a huge shame?

Barack Obama looks, and shakes his head

At this assemblage of the living dead.

For, like the rest of us, he's of the part

That manages to have both brain and heart.