The verses below are about the thoughts of philosophers (their last names all begin with “H” for now). The verses are all in dactylic hexameter—four feet of dactyls or spondees, one dactyl, and one spondee. To make it simpler, I have mostly kept to five dactyls ending with a spondee). Here is an example of this meter: Down in a | deep dark | hole sat an | old pig | munching a | bean stalk.
Hákuin Máster of Zén was íce shattered bý the bells’ rínging
Óver the hílls under Fúji, and súddenly hé had satóri.
Róomfuls of óne-handed cláppers appláuding the máster’s satóri.
Súch a long tíme had Hákuin lónged for his cértificátion;
Líght was his fírst enlíghtenment, réading béautiful sútras,
Thén he télls of the béll and the íce, agáin was enlíghtened,
Héavier thán befóre, it was “trý and trý” for satóri.
Some laws are written and others are hidden so no one can know them
Men who are miners know where there’s treasure and how to derive it.
Minor to major, analogies help, comparison also.
Back in the day when they turned on the light of the mind they had high hopes,
Make a few laws and forget what was said by the ancient tradition,
Let clever lawyers direct how things run, and then who needs religion.
All men are good men and we can control hidden workings of nature.
Laws cannot change hidden thoughts and desires in the hearts of the people
knowing what feels to be right and eternally true, but laws that are man-made,
Laws that impose what is ugly and crooked, inspire no allegiance.
Memory collective, selectively drawing, rejects things that don’t fit
into the story the group has narrated for some noble purpose,
blanks out the bad stuff that fits not the mythmaking aims and ambitions.
If you see something that you shouldn’t see, recollection will fail you
Scratching your head in dismay, as the memories slip from your vision.
Miner’s were dying in tunnels exploding and gases were noxious.
Coal was as black as the darkness before the creation of lightning,
…while…
divers had bubbles in bloodstreams and troubles in rising
to the high surface of oceans when too deep in water.
Elements, atoms and molecules have been invented by clever
scientists who then regard their own concepts as very much real things,
empty abstractions that serve as distractions for true contemplation.
Puppies and oaktrees are not heaps of atoms no more than ourselves are.
Language is truly a gift from God, it is not merely makeshift
filling the weakness of instinct in humans, a sort of invention.
Words have the past and the future all packaged in sonorous soundings,
words are traditional legacies handed on down from the ancients.
Looking inside my mind and my heart and my memory traces
I can’t find anything good inside so I look to the outside
Looking to do some good deeds to fill up the emptiness inside
Makers of coffins impatiently wait for the death of the people
if they will feed their own children, provide for their loved ones,
If I can find a true Zen state of Mind when I look at a landscape
Is it not true that a beautiful girl can be just as entrancing?
Foreign traditions insinuate into the Mediate Kingdom,
Breaking all family ties and destroying the ancient devotion,
trampling down bonds between brothers and sisters and fathers,
no help expected from hermits who seek only dark desolations.
All that is left of the past and the gone are the forms of awareness
Big shapes existed but never persisted and time is so careless.
If you have eyes that can see in the dark, then stop and observe this:
Realm of the ghost and the mind interacting with lowliest matter,
acting in nature and going beyond it to build up a city,
while the Slovakian underground program for space exploration
plans daily flights to the noosphere’s outermost reaches.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
EMBRYO FROM A DISTANCE
(written in second Asclepiadean meter)
Embryo, you are distantly
seen from space just a dot
some little dot with soul.
From high clouds you are just a speck,
from the moon so are we.
NOS SOMOS NADA, too.
Even dots can aspire to live,
later, some kind of life,
and I am still a dot.
Embryo, you are distantly
seen from space just a dot
some little dot with soul.
From high clouds you are just a speck,
from the moon so are we.
NOS SOMOS NADA, too.
Even dots can aspire to live,
later, some kind of life,
and I am still a dot.
SNIPPETS IN SECOND ASCLEPIADEAN METER
(see below for how this meter works)
She brings bread from a far-off land,
She brings bread from the sky,
Bread from the sky she bears.
I am one of her goats that graze,
under moonlight I wait
for her to come again.
I've one wild turkey in the yard,
One big wild turkey
takes off like a jumbo jet.
In the dog-house a crazy cat
runs out when I approach.
She stops then looks behind.
She saw that I was watching her.
She has no fickle ways.
I've been the restless one.
Look, says she, I'm alone and you
keep your distance from me,
untrusting crocodile.
You surmise that the dreams, they come
from the unconscious place.
You might as well have said
that they come from the Land of Nod.
Dreams come, and who knows why,
then slip away and decay.
She brings bread from a far-off land,
She brings bread from the sky,
Bread from the sky she bears.
I am one of her goats that graze,
under moonlight I wait
for her to come again.
I've one wild turkey in the yard,
One big wild turkey
takes off like a jumbo jet.
In the dog-house a crazy cat
runs out when I approach.
She stops then looks behind.
She saw that I was watching her.
She has no fickle ways.
I've been the restless one.
Look, says she, I'm alone and you
keep your distance from me,
untrusting crocodile.
You surmise that the dreams, they come
from the unconscious place.
You might as well have said
that they come from the Land of Nod.
Dreams come, and who knows why,
then slip away and decay.
RECOMPENSATION
(in iambic pentameter)
Once blacks sold blacks to whites for jars of rum,
so every one’s to blame for what was done.
They’re proud to feel so guilty of the past,
their doleful looks don't mean they feel a thing.
Once blacks sold blacks to whites for jars of rum,
so every one’s to blame for what was done.
They’re proud to feel so guilty of the past,
their doleful looks don't mean they feel a thing.
MY OWN PRIMEVAL NON-EXISTENCE
(written in iambic pentameter)
If space
Were made alonely but no things were placed
like crows in trees in "ex" and "wy" and "zee"
or wolves for whom crows watch and stand on guard
or dolphins none broke non-existent seas,
no changes cut the thread of fluid time,
my own eye watching not in that cold dark,
I would not mind, it would not bother me.
If space
Were made alonely but no things were placed
like crows in trees in "ex" and "wy" and "zee"
or wolves for whom crows watch and stand on guard
or dolphins none broke non-existent seas,
no changes cut the thread of fluid time,
my own eye watching not in that cold dark,
I would not mind, it would not bother me.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
THE BEGINNING
(Written in 2nd Asclepiadean meter, which is represented like this:
— — | — ˘ ˘ | — ˘ | —
— — | — ˘ ˘ | — // — ˘ ˘ | — ˘ | —
A meter often used by Horace).
Way back in the beginning all
Emptiness, O so Empty, nothing at all to see.
Sky came first but the sky was dark.
It came out of the deep. There was no up or down.
Look as hard as you can for light.
Floating, you cannot see. Vision is useless here.
Now you hear just a hint of wind.
Feel it touch on your skin. Someone is here, and there.
Deep above, yes and deep below,
Up and down, all is deep. Deepness awaits the word.
Such a wonderful world we’re in.
Such a wonderful world, wonderful, beautiful.
— — | — ˘ ˘ | — ˘ | —
— — | — ˘ ˘ | — // — ˘ ˘ | — ˘ | —
A meter often used by Horace).
Way back in the beginning all
Emptiness, O so Empty, nothing at all to see.
Sky came first but the sky was dark.
It came out of the deep. There was no up or down.
Look as hard as you can for light.
Floating, you cannot see. Vision is useless here.
Now you hear just a hint of wind.
Feel it touch on your skin. Someone is here, and there.
Deep above, yes and deep below,
Up and down, all is deep. Deepness awaits the word.
Such a wonderful world we’re in.
Such a wonderful world, wonderful, beautiful.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Home in the Mountains
(Written in Alcaic meter, favorite of Horace, and thoughts drawn abundantly from the traditional song "Rank Strangers". For an interpretation of the rhythm of Alcaic meter, see the graphic below.)
I love the country, you love the city life.
You hear the pigeons, I hear the turtle doves.
We once were children in the school yard.
Now we are busy as we can manage.
The sun will rise today on my mountain home.
Once more I wander, tall as the trees have grown.
Where are the old folks gone away to?
Voices of strangers tell me nothing.
By crystal oceans, bright in tranquility.
They're gone from their old posts, to the shining sea.
So when you ask where have they gone to,
That other shore far away from nowhere.
I love the country, you love the city life.
You hear the pigeons, I hear the turtle doves.
We once were children in the school yard.
Now we are busy as we can manage.
The sun will rise today on my mountain home.
Once more I wander, tall as the trees have grown.
Where are the old folks gone away to?
Voices of strangers tell me nothing.
By crystal oceans, bright in tranquility.
They're gone from their old posts, to the shining sea.
So when you ask where have they gone to,
That other shore far away from nowhere.
ELEVEN AND NINE AND TEN
(written as an example of Alcaic meter, used by Horace. The above image uses musical notion to show how to read it in an appropriate rhythm.).
Conspiracies abound in the absent light
while dust of concrete falls down into the drink.
The world has changed that seemed so safe once.
How can we fail to recall the turning.
Now move along, keep calm, to the next event.
Your sole concern is whether to buy or rent.
Today is when you are evicted.
After ten years for not paying your Landlord.
Life and decay rotate everywhere I look.
The yard will mutate some in the time I read
a book, but then I read so slowly.
Work never ends if you grow a garden.
We build in squares but its a circle world.
In small adjustments we force it all to fit.
The soul cannot abide in this a-
bode, but it falls into dust and changes.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
HASTA LA VISTA FIDEL
There’s a place for you
in a wax museum
reserved right next
to a North Korean
with a trumpet in your hand
and singing a song
with a red star band
led by Kim il Jong,
reserved for you
by Vlad the Impaler.
He’s smoking your cigar
by his tornado trailer.
There are a few
who call evil good,
who kiss the mud
wherever you stood,
But Lenin’s tomb
is full of rot,
and you’re a monster
just like Pol Pot.
Of course, this little thing (like those below, to the meter of “Six More Miles…”) is about Fidel Castro.
in a wax museum
reserved right next
to a North Korean
with a trumpet in your hand
and singing a song
with a red star band
led by Kim il Jong,
reserved for you
by Vlad the Impaler.
He’s smoking your cigar
by his tornado trailer.
There are a few
who call evil good,
who kiss the mud
wherever you stood,
But Lenin’s tomb
is full of rot,
and you’re a monster
just like Pol Pot.
Of course, this little thing (like those below, to the meter of “Six More Miles…”) is about Fidel Castro.
A FEW MORE MILES
When the red light
turns to green
wake yourself up
from your dream
When the light is green
keep looking ahead
because that light
will change to red
And stifle your rage
when you’re behind the wheel
when you’re in control
of two tons of steel
Sometimes its mud
sometimes fog or ice
If you looked once
you better look twice
Another little thing, to the meter of Hank William’s “Six more Miles…”.
turns to green
wake yourself up
from your dream
When the light is green
keep looking ahead
because that light
will change to red
And stifle your rage
when you’re behind the wheel
when you’re in control
of two tons of steel
Sometimes its mud
sometimes fog or ice
If you looked once
you better look twice
Another little thing, to the meter of Hank William’s “Six more Miles…”.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
SIX MORE MILES TO THE GRAVEYARD
I
I’ll put on an old bearskin,
camp out in the trees,
write my songs on birchbark
harmonize with bees,
find myself a lady,
who likes to wear no clothes,
who’s really good at chopping wood,
and doesn’t mind mosquitoes
The salmon come to die,
but that's just what they do,
so my friend don’t worry
if we’ll make it through
mudslides down the canyon,
come back the way you came,
on the long bread-crumb trail
mixed with drops of rain
II
One worm looks at another
and sees beauty divine,
and wiggles and proposes,
to raise children in your eye.
The vulture finds its breakfast,
so virtuously prepared,
the flies sing in a choir
all counterpoint in air.
The boots go to the soldier,
whose feet they fit so well.
The toes go to the pathway,
the soul goes down to hell,
So wanderer take warning,
as pleasures turn to pain,
seek the grace while there’s still time,
mixed with drops of rain.
III
She’d be so happy now,
knowing how you weep,
and knowing how you wish,
and seeing how very deep—
your sorrow runs,
and though the days are long,
and shining suns are warm,
You remember that she’s gone—
In thoughts—in dreams.
Only in your deepest sleep,
when worlds disappear,
only then you are at peace.
But then you are like her,
in that state you can’t remain,
as dreams become remembrance
mixed with drops of rain.
IV
Dig up the ground,
with a golden spade.
Lower down
a silver chain.
The ground is soft,
the trees still bare,
rare snow is mixed
with drops of rain.
I cannot breathe,
I can scarcely speak,
I know no prayer,
for this special pain.
You’re gone at last,
in a blink of my eye,
the sky says goodbye
with drops of rain.
Notes: All these little things above are written to the tune or meter of “Six More Miles (to the Graveyard)” by Hank Williams. The first thing (I) is based on the story of a man who claimed to return to the woods without the amenities of civilization in the early twentieth century and wrote a book. Later a woman joined him, but she bailed out. The second (II) started as a thought on how beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I am refuting the objection that a good Creator would not allow worms to live in the eyes of orphans. The third (III) is inspired by a poem of Catullus, that the man’s deceased wife would appreciate his love for her shown by his lamentation. The fourth (IV) is on the death of my dog, and it has echoes of a song called “Old Dog Blue”.
I’ll put on an old bearskin,
camp out in the trees,
write my songs on birchbark
harmonize with bees,
find myself a lady,
who likes to wear no clothes,
who’s really good at chopping wood,
and doesn’t mind mosquitoes
The salmon come to die,
but that's just what they do,
so my friend don’t worry
if we’ll make it through
mudslides down the canyon,
come back the way you came,
on the long bread-crumb trail
mixed with drops of rain
II
One worm looks at another
and sees beauty divine,
and wiggles and proposes,
to raise children in your eye.
The vulture finds its breakfast,
so virtuously prepared,
the flies sing in a choir
all counterpoint in air.
The boots go to the soldier,
whose feet they fit so well.
The toes go to the pathway,
the soul goes down to hell,
So wanderer take warning,
as pleasures turn to pain,
seek the grace while there’s still time,
mixed with drops of rain.
III
She’d be so happy now,
knowing how you weep,
and knowing how you wish,
and seeing how very deep—
your sorrow runs,
and though the days are long,
and shining suns are warm,
You remember that she’s gone—
In thoughts—in dreams.
Only in your deepest sleep,
when worlds disappear,
only then you are at peace.
But then you are like her,
in that state you can’t remain,
as dreams become remembrance
mixed with drops of rain.
IV
Dig up the ground,
with a golden spade.
Lower down
a silver chain.
The ground is soft,
the trees still bare,
rare snow is mixed
with drops of rain.
I cannot breathe,
I can scarcely speak,
I know no prayer,
for this special pain.
You’re gone at last,
in a blink of my eye,
the sky says goodbye
with drops of rain.
Notes: All these little things above are written to the tune or meter of “Six More Miles (to the Graveyard)” by Hank Williams. The first thing (I) is based on the story of a man who claimed to return to the woods without the amenities of civilization in the early twentieth century and wrote a book. Later a woman joined him, but she bailed out. The second (II) started as a thought on how beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I am refuting the objection that a good Creator would not allow worms to live in the eyes of orphans. The third (III) is inspired by a poem of Catullus, that the man’s deceased wife would appreciate his love for her shown by his lamentation. The fourth (IV) is on the death of my dog, and it has echoes of a song called “Old Dog Blue”.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Outer and Inner Space (A Spenserian Sonnet)
Waiting for dawn I looked to outer space
beyond the moon past where our bold kind
has gone—nowhere—where winks no human face
and astronauts who sail there with their mind
They see the world below their feet designed
Some awesome power must that small globe protect
Yet no mad fool that power in his closed mind
can hold, but power such as that deserves respect
While to our eyes light’s course is so direct
Each mind unlike another has its train
What one sees another can’t detect
and, vision absent, argument is vain.
One eye will try to make another see
But mortal mind cannot tell mystery.
beyond the moon past where our bold kind
has gone—nowhere—where winks no human face
and astronauts who sail there with their mind
They see the world below their feet designed
Some awesome power must that small globe protect
Yet no mad fool that power in his closed mind
can hold, but power such as that deserves respect
While to our eyes light’s course is so direct
Each mind unlike another has its train
What one sees another can’t detect
and, vision absent, argument is vain.
One eye will try to make another see
But mortal mind cannot tell mystery.
Monday, September 3, 2007
From Psalm 3 with Emily Dickinson # 141
The daylight’s gone
and somethings' wrong
The crickets start now one by one
They swarm with drum and song.
Old troubles settle with the dew
While visions march as soldiers do
I’m all alone except for you
So linger, do not go.
I did not ask for wine or grain.
Show not your face or give your name.
That you are here lights up this home,
and sleep comes like a train.
Is science wrong?
About the sun?
Two stars stay up, but one is gone.
I’ll dream until the dawn.
My adversary with his crew
with broken teeth all rotting through
Runs in retreat for fear of you
So linger, do not go.
The roof will hold, you will sustain.
You went down and up you came.
Some nights I shiver to the bone
In anger or with shame.
When rain is none I gather dew
And squeeze the earth as oak-trees do.
Your offer stands, your word is true.
The time will come to go.
My ticket’s come
and one by one
My bags are packed and work is done
The time it soon will come.
and somethings' wrong
The crickets start now one by one
They swarm with drum and song.
Old troubles settle with the dew
While visions march as soldiers do
I’m all alone except for you
So linger, do not go.
I did not ask for wine or grain.
Show not your face or give your name.
That you are here lights up this home,
and sleep comes like a train.
Is science wrong?
About the sun?
Two stars stay up, but one is gone.
I’ll dream until the dawn.
My adversary with his crew
with broken teeth all rotting through
Runs in retreat for fear of you
So linger, do not go.
The roof will hold, you will sustain.
You went down and up you came.
Some nights I shiver to the bone
In anger or with shame.
When rain is none I gather dew
And squeeze the earth as oak-trees do.
Your offer stands, your word is true.
The time will come to go.
My ticket’s come
and one by one
My bags are packed and work is done
The time it soon will come.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Double Sonnet on Psalm 2
When I consider all the laughing kings
the conspiracies they cover up and make
their chains and fetters, treaties that they break
their guarded borders are such fragile things.
Who see insult where injury is none
who grind and kill and torment without fear
whose flattering dwarfs say what they want to hear
their downcast dogs will live to see them hung.
And Iron will crush those kings, they're only clay
Porcelain dropped so careless on a floor
when Someone Big comes strolling in the door
They took and took and now they'll have to pay
From atop the stairs they hear a merry laugh
They piss their pants in the presence of His wrath
What awful shock came when He read the will;
the lines and markers he switched them all around
the Youngest Son’s the Only One in town
They hold their tongues and take their bitter pill
One city under water black with mold
While miles away we see another fall
In this confusion you can’t place a call
Beware, my dear, false stories will be told
They judge the man who stammers when he talks
They speak so sleekly calumny and scorn,
call evil pretty to glorify their porn,
They suck and siphon but they never walk.
Their glasses drop—they hear that merry laugh
And soil themselves in the shadow of his wrath.
the conspiracies they cover up and make
their chains and fetters, treaties that they break
their guarded borders are such fragile things.
Who see insult where injury is none
who grind and kill and torment without fear
whose flattering dwarfs say what they want to hear
their downcast dogs will live to see them hung.
And Iron will crush those kings, they're only clay
Porcelain dropped so careless on a floor
when Someone Big comes strolling in the door
They took and took and now they'll have to pay
From atop the stairs they hear a merry laugh
They piss their pants in the presence of His wrath
What awful shock came when He read the will;
the lines and markers he switched them all around
the Youngest Son’s the Only One in town
They hold their tongues and take their bitter pill
One city under water black with mold
While miles away we see another fall
In this confusion you can’t place a call
Beware, my dear, false stories will be told
They judge the man who stammers when he talks
They speak so sleekly calumny and scorn,
call evil pretty to glorify their porn,
They suck and siphon but they never walk.
Their glasses drop—they hear that merry laugh
And soil themselves in the shadow of his wrath.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
BRAIDED HAIR
(to the tune, roughly, of "Tom Dula")
Hang down your hair out the window
Hang out your tears to dry
He’s banging on your brass, dear
He’s got a long-bow on his knee
The time it being late, dear
The rain it being cold
Don’t let him wait too long dear
Let him into your fold
You’ve cut off all access
with your Scandinavian knife
So no he must try harder
If he’ll take you as his wife
He met her under moonbeams
He held the string to her kite
And then she closed her eyes
before he could say good-night
The stair-case it goes downstairs
and goes right up again
The doorway it leads out
but doesn’t come in the same
Two travellers come on stubborn mules
a cat is ringing a bell
but the mice don’t seem so worried
as far as she can tell
She sees the promenade
and looks down to the pond
He sits there feeding pigeons
and the grey goose sings a song
She walks away from the window
and open the lock on her book
and holds the final chapter
with a curious furrowed look
He paces by the river
and catches a rusty bus
and goes back to the desert
for he knows he’s had enough
Hang down your hair out the window
Hang out your tears to dry
He’s banging on your brass, dear
He’s got a long-bow on his knee
(the end)
Commentary: Sure, there is some sort of plot
and references are oblique to real things,
but obviously it is mere nonsense and
simply goes with the music.
Hang down your hair out the window
Hang out your tears to dry
He’s banging on your brass, dear
He’s got a long-bow on his knee
The time it being late, dear
The rain it being cold
Don’t let him wait too long dear
Let him into your fold
You’ve cut off all access
with your Scandinavian knife
So no he must try harder
If he’ll take you as his wife
He met her under moonbeams
He held the string to her kite
And then she closed her eyes
before he could say good-night
The stair-case it goes downstairs
and goes right up again
The doorway it leads out
but doesn’t come in the same
Two travellers come on stubborn mules
a cat is ringing a bell
but the mice don’t seem so worried
as far as she can tell
She sees the promenade
and looks down to the pond
He sits there feeding pigeons
and the grey goose sings a song
She walks away from the window
and open the lock on her book
and holds the final chapter
with a curious furrowed look
He paces by the river
and catches a rusty bus
and goes back to the desert
for he knows he’s had enough
Hang down your hair out the window
Hang out your tears to dry
He’s banging on your brass, dear
He’s got a long-bow on his knee
(the end)
Commentary: Sure, there is some sort of plot
and references are oblique to real things,
but obviously it is mere nonsense and
simply goes with the music.
MISTY
I’ll linger on before I go
‘til the earth is soft and melts the snow
Then I’ll vanish under my favorite tree
and leave you with my memory
I played the role of your best friend
I stuck by you to the bitter end
People will ask for half a year
Where I’ve gone but it’s not clear
They say that He makes all things new
What will I be when I next see you?
What will I say, will I have hands?
I’ve done no wrong, but I’m not a man
Will we stand by side on a sunlit plane?
Or will I look down with blame?
I know you wept, I smelled your tears
I was finally blind, but still could hear
I lingered ’til the moment was true
‘til five o'clock I waited for you
The stairs went up and so did you
You know it's true, I waited for you
So now you visit your talking friends
and what we had has come to an end
You don’t need to check on me
as I vanish under the ancient tree.
(the end)
Commentary: The dog died on the first day of spring
at five o'clock. “I” who is speaking here, of course, refers to the dog.
‘til the earth is soft and melts the snow
Then I’ll vanish under my favorite tree
and leave you with my memory
I played the role of your best friend
I stuck by you to the bitter end
People will ask for half a year
Where I’ve gone but it’s not clear
They say that He makes all things new
What will I be when I next see you?
What will I say, will I have hands?
I’ve done no wrong, but I’m not a man
Will we stand by side on a sunlit plane?
Or will I look down with blame?
I know you wept, I smelled your tears
I was finally blind, but still could hear
I lingered ’til the moment was true
‘til five o'clock I waited for you
The stairs went up and so did you
You know it's true, I waited for you
So now you visit your talking friends
and what we had has come to an end
You don’t need to check on me
as I vanish under the ancient tree.
(the end)
Commentary: The dog died on the first day of spring
at five o'clock. “I” who is speaking here, of course, refers to the dog.
Double Sonnet on Psalm 1
All day and night and all it does is stand
while water runs, those leaves will never fade
Its constancy the wind can’t drive away
The strong roots of my tree hold fast the land
Small scraps and coupons tumble down the walk
Grey dust is spreading blocking out the sun
Don't let the darkness fall—my works' not done
I listen, learn, rememb'ring not to talk
The herd is thinning out, each year a few
Some turn a corner and they slip from view.
You may have noticed nothing going on
My tree is busy growing to the clouds
Sometimes alone, sometimes amid the crowds
But constantly my tree is growing strong
The land is sailing, skies are standing still
The wheels of mem’ry go around again
The river running in my mind needs rain
The river never stops—it never will
The herd is thinning—every week a few
As I turn another slips from view.
while water runs, those leaves will never fade
Its constancy the wind can’t drive away
The strong roots of my tree hold fast the land
Small scraps and coupons tumble down the walk
Grey dust is spreading blocking out the sun
Don't let the darkness fall—my works' not done
I listen, learn, rememb'ring not to talk
The herd is thinning out, each year a few
Some turn a corner and they slip from view.
You may have noticed nothing going on
My tree is busy growing to the clouds
Sometimes alone, sometimes amid the crowds
But constantly my tree is growing strong
The land is sailing, skies are standing still
The wheels of mem’ry go around again
The river running in my mind needs rain
The river never stops—it never will
The herd is thinning—every week a few
As I turn another slips from view.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Sonnet on Psalm 36
Sin speaks to evil men in their dark hearts
They have no God to fear before their eyes
For they beguile themselves with twisted thoughts
their guilt will not be found out or despised
Empty and false words are in his mouth
No longer knowing how to do what’s right
Before sleep comes he plans his evil out
with not a care for what or how he’ll fight
Up there where the blue sky and the air are thin
Love moves the wind and thickens welcome rain
I stand in happy water to my chin
And children’s laughter echoes in my brain
The busy feet of pride cannot stay still
A time of rest they call more time to kill
They have no God to fear before their eyes
For they beguile themselves with twisted thoughts
their guilt will not be found out or despised
Empty and false words are in his mouth
No longer knowing how to do what’s right
Before sleep comes he plans his evil out
with not a care for what or how he’ll fight
Up there where the blue sky and the air are thin
Love moves the wind and thickens welcome rain
I stand in happy water to my chin
And children’s laughter echoes in my brain
The busy feet of pride cannot stay still
A time of rest they call more time to kill
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